


Become, Become, Again and Again

by MotherOfCups



Series: The Iris Oracle [4]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: AMAB Asra, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flashbacks, Healing, M/M, Magic, Memories, Multi, Novelization, OT3, Part 4 of 4, Polyamory, Smut, Tarot, Trauma, Witchcraft, canon-divergent, content warnings, feedback WELCOMED, growing together, healing together, holy absolute fuxj if y'all are still reading I love you, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 157,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22649929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherOfCups/pseuds/MotherOfCups
Summary: Guided by familiar faces, Iris and her lovers traverse the Arcane realms, putting their faith in the fate the Universe has woven for them; together, they search for the answers that have haunted Iris since her awakening. But will searching for the light be enough to stop the Devil and the end of the liminal spaces?
Relationships: Apprentice/Asra (The Arcana), Apprentice/Asra/Julian Devorak, Apprentice/Julian Devorak, Asra/Julian Devorak, Asra/Julian Devorak/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Iris Oracle [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1491047
Comments: 54
Kudos: 57





	1. The Tower: Paint the Black Hole Blacker

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 4 of a 4-part series. Find [part 1 here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20712947/chapters/49204718), [part 2 here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21120302/chapters/50258405), and [part 3 here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21732550/chapters/51842962). If shorts are more your speed, check out [The Lacquered Box](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21000662/chapters/49941794). 
> 
> I can't write without music. Listen along [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/11blweUtQklVHHtxeAP11U). 
> 
> Content warnings are noted at the beginning of each chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Kishi Bashi - Atticus, In the Desert (String Quartet Live! Version)**
> 
> _CW: Graphic depictions of violence, gun use, blood, slight medical gore, allusions to rape/ambicon_
> 
> This chapter was lightly and lovingly beta'd by the inimitable [Aria_i_Adagio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_i_Adagio/works).

Iris hardly registered the bedlam behind her as Lucio descended down the last of the stairs, his stupid, satisfied smile widening with each step, his gaze never leaving hers. He flashed her a smug, wicked, conspiratorial look, but she could do nothing as he stepped through the crystalline vision of her form, scattering her senses. His eyes narrowed sadistically as they fell on Asra and Julian, holding each other but staring him down warily, both their faces flushed with anger, with boiling hatred.

“Boys...you aren’t happy to see me?” He glowered as he licked his lips at the sight of them together. “I’m glad you were able to set aside your differences. That will make it much...easier for us later.” 

Julian’s lips twisted into a hiss as he reached into his suit jacket, but an elegant hand dripping in gold and jewels stretched in front of him, a warning. Nadia stepped forward, her garnet eyes steady, her lips set in a thin, dangerous line as she surveyed Lucio disdainfully.

Lucio looked Nadia up and down, gaze brazen, lips curling. “Beautiful as ever, Noddy. Did you miss me?” 

One arched eyebrow sprung up as Nadia’s lips spread into what could only be described as a sneer of unabashed scorn. “How could I miss someone who shows up to a celebration in an outfit as cheerless as your war uniform?” 

Lucio’s response was to laugh, once, airless, dismissive, but Iris immediately saw the cracks in his swagger as he glanced back at the small crowd who dared to stay; he cleared his throat, and his face twisted into a petulant pout. 

“Come now, Noddy, I’m back from the dead. That’s a feat worth celebrating, isn’t it?” 

Nadia lifted her chin, gazing down her long nose at him. “It is a common feat, these days. Iris did it; Ilya did it. Dear Asra assisted them both. It will take much more than that to impress me.” 

Lucio snapped. “You act like you didn’t miss me at all, Noddy! I am _your husband_!” 

Nadia sniffed, her eyes flitted back to him disinterestedly. “I’m sorry, what was that? Were you saying something?” An impish smile lit up her features. “Ah, nevermind...I’m sure it was nothing of import. You can entertain yourself, no? I have business to attend to, being Countess, and all. You understand.” With that, she turned away from him, her hand settling firmly, clearly, on Portia’s shoulder, leading her away from Lucio. 

He stood stock-still for a long moment before rounding on Julian and Asra. “You missed me, didn’t you, boys?” 

“No.” Julian spat, his gaze cold.

Asra’s eyes narrowed icily, his teeth gritted. “Don’t call me boy.” The two of them also turned away, following Nadia out of the ballroom; Malak swooped in with a mocking squawk through the doorway above their heads. 

The only ones left were Muriel, Vasalisa, and Inanna. Muriel merely glowered at Lucio, his jaw set, and Vasalisa growled, standing with one liquid movement, her back arched like a cat’s in warning. Iris saw Lucio shiver visibly as Muriel towered over him, but then Muriel turned away disinterestedly, clicking his tongue twice – Vasalisa, Inanna, and he melted into the crowd. Iris barely scrambled through the door before Muriel slammed it shut, the mahogany wood splintering in its frame as the lock clicked loudly behind him. Even through the thick doors, Iris could hear the frustrated, echoing shriek that followed. 

Nadia tsked loudly, every one of her features etched in long-suffering irritation. “I cannot believe that we’ve allowed him to return.” She murmured, pinching the bridge of her nose, the mark on her forehead glowing.

“It’s no one’s fault.” Julian’s voice was drawn, wan. “The Devil outplayed us all. He tricked Iris, threatened her into agreeing to his deal. He must have forced her out of the Fool’s body.”

Asra’s eyes flew open. “And now...she’s between realms, like Lucio was.” His features buckled, and Iris’s heart clenched as Julian gripped his lover’s shoulder tighter, reassuringly. “We have to help her. Move her somewhere safer.” 

Portia’s eyes narrowed, her quick eyes darting between Julian and Nadia. “I’m worried about Iris, too. But should that be our priority right now? Should we be containing Lucio, protecting the guests?” 

“If Iris stays in the realm between, she could deteriorate, as Lucio did.” A soft but sonorous voice rose from across the room. All six pairs of eyes shot up; Nafizah and her consort, the man with the kind brown eyes, surveyed them all with steady gazes.

“Nafizah.” Nadia muttered, voice careful and even. “Sister, how do you know this?” 

Nafizah’s golden eyes flashed, unseeing. “I have seen it in a vision. You must protect Iris. She is the light, and she is the key. She cannot languish in the in-between.” 

Her consort scanned the room, carefully, skillfully, before finally settling on Iris; he smiled, his features warm – Iris could see every glowing shade of brown in his eyes, warm and gentle against the cool gray of everything. “Beauty. You’re with us.” He cooed, outstretching a hand to her. Iris took it, easily – his skin was solid, his touch warm, the only warm thing she had felt since the Devil tore her from the Fool’s body.

“You can see me?” Iris whispered.

He grinned widely and nodded; Nafizah’s hand fell on the crook of his elbow, even as her steady gaze never broke with Nadia’s. “Aziz. You’ve found her?” 

“Yes, Zsa-Zsa. She’s here with us.” His hand tightened around Iris’s, and she felt his warmth spread into her, bolstering her, drawing her closer earthside.

“Excellent, Iris.” Nafizah said, the corner of her mouth turning upwards, before her eyes focused back on her youngest sister. “Didi. Take Asra, Muriel, and Julian to your tower. Send the lovers to the Magician’s realm – they will begin their journey there. They cannot face Lucio and the Devil now. They have much to learn before they are ready. Muriel must stay and protect their bodies.” 

Portia bristled visibly. “Can we wait that long? Lucio is _here, **now**_. The ritual could begin at any moment.” 

Nafizah’s imperious eye fell on Portia, twinkling with curiosity. “You are right to worry, but time does not move in the other realms as it does here.” Her voice softened audibly. “You have a special role in this, Portia. You’re as intelligent as your brother, and as resourceful. It will be your role to distract Lucio and keep him at bay.” Nafizah smiled warmly now as she regarded the blushing handmaiden, nearly a half a meter shorter than her. “It is clear to me why Didi chose you. You are trustworthy, capable, and full of warmth. This will be the way you fight this fight, Portia. But you will not be alone. My sisters, Aziz, and I will be here to assist you until the lovers can return.” 

Portia blushed furiously, but nodded silently. Nadia’s garnet eyes never left her sister’s. “Zsa-Zsa. You’ve seen this? In a vision?” 

“Oh, dear Didi.” Nafizah smiled, warmly, knowingly. “I dream of the end of the world all the time. I have seen it play out many times.” Her voice lowered to a whisper, heard only by Nadia, Aziz, and Iris. “Please, dear sister. Trust me.” She said nothing more, only letting her hand tighten on Aziz’s arm.

Nadia’s nostrils flared, and for a moment, Iris thought Nadia would balk, turn away. But then her eyes softened, she was laying a long hand on Portia’s shoulder. “Dearest. Can you distract Lucio until I can return to you? I must take care of this.” 

Portia nodded willfully, her strong brows set. “I’ll be a pain in his ass.” 

_“Daj mu pakao, Paša.”_ Julian muttered softly, the edges of his shapely lips curling softly; Asra, a little warmth spreading across his features, leaned into Julian, touched by the pride that radiated from him. 

“I know you will.” Nadia said with a smile, and stooped to kiss Portia on the lips, gentle and lingering. And then Nadia straightened, regal and steely-eyed. “Come with me then, Asra, Ilya, Muriel. Iris.” Her eyes flitted to where Aziz’s gaze fell, where Iris watched them with curious, alert eyes. 

The Countess turned, her dark gown spilling out around her, as she pressed a palm into a surreptitious brick; the wall dissolved, revealing a spiraling staircase. Nadia gathered her gossamer skirts and ascended, Julian and Asra hurrying behind her, Iris rushing behind them as Muriel brought up the rear. The bricks rematerialized with a grinding, whirring sound, and Iris was only able to get a glimpse at Aziz and Nafizah’s knowing eyes, before they were sealed in. 

They went up and up and up, and Iris thought her legs would give out until they came upon a beautiful door, inlaid with images of cranes and peacocks inlaid with lapis, jade, opal, all sorts of precious stones. In the center was a cluster of red jasper pomegranates; Nadia laid her hand on the center fruit, which slipped easily into a well-oiled groove and away, revealing a keyhole. Nadia procured the key from the folds of her gown and unlocked it with a practiced motion; the wood and stone groaned and slid apart, revealing another long spiral staircase. 

They must have been in the highest spire of the palace now; Iris was acutely aware of how her lovers, Muriel, herself, panted with exertion, little beads of sweat gathering on their brows as they continued to climb the steps, desperately trying to keep up with Nadia’s stormy pace. After what felt like an eternity of climbing, they finally leveled onto a steepled room that echoed sibilantly with running water, channels sunk into a wide room that was filled with cushions and pillows, low seats and places for prayer and meditation. 

“This is my contemplation tower.” Nadia said quietly. “I...I have never brought anyone up here. Not even Portia.” She turned to the three who followed her, Iris’s intangible form behind them. Nadia’s eyes fell on Iris, and even though her eyes did not focus, she stepped forward, her hand reaching out and smoothly caressing Iris’s cheek, despite Nadia’s fingers passing through her form. All she could feel was a whisper, a memory of warmth. 

“Dear Iris. I am so sorry. I failed to stop Lucio. We...we failed to stop him.” Two tears eked out of Nadia’s eyes, rolling down her cheeks. Asra, with a soft inhale, stepped forward, and placed his hand on Nadia’s shoulder. 

“What’s done is done, Nadi. We can only choose how we move forward.” He murmured softly. “We can still save her. All is not lost.” 

“Yes, you’re right, Asra.” Nadia drew a shuddering breath, centering herself. “What has happened, has happened. There’s nothing we can do to change the past. All we have is how we move forward.” 

“Hear, hear.” Julian agreed softly at Nadia’s side. “Let’s not waste time now with worry.” 

Asra nodded. “The sooner we send me and Iris to the Magician’s realm, the sooner I’m able to find her...the safer she’ll be.” 

Julian’s eyes steeled, certainty muscling through his sharp features. “I’m coming in with you.” 

Asra turned to Julian, surveying him carefully. When he spoke, his words were calm, measured. “The Arcane realms are dangerous, even for skilled magicians, Ilya. I don’t know what’s in store for us there. I….Iris and I...we might not be able to protect you.” 

Julian’s lip lifted into the slightest scowl. “Don’t patronize me, Asra. I’ve been to the Magician’s realm, the Hanged Man’s realm, Death’s gate. Like hell I’m going to sit on my thumb while you and Iris do this alone.” 

Asra’s voice was firm now, his eyes chilly. “No, Ilya. I can’t risk your safety, too.” 

There was a gravelly sound – Muriel, humming, his voice heavy before he spoke. “Princess Nafizah said protect the bodies. I think she meant...for both of you to go.” 

Nadia’s eyes sparked. “I agree. If you have much to learn… then all three of you must learn it. Together.” 

Asra opened his mouth to speak, his brows set, but Julian’s hand fell on his shoulder. “Remember what Death said. We’re stronger together.” 

Asra placed his hand over Julian’s, grasping it gently, but his gaze was uncertain. “Please be careful, Ilya. Listen to me, and to Iris. If we get separated...don’t do anything stupid.” 

Julian chuckled, his eyes warm. “No promises.” He dropped a gentle kiss on Asra’s temple, and Asra couldn’t help the little smirk that curled at the corners of his mouth. 

Nadia smiled, gently. “Shall we?” She gestured to the center of the room; the marble floor was etched with an elaborate, five pointed sigil, a pentagram. Nadia sank to her knees at the top left point of the star, and Asra settled across from her at the top right, guiding Julian to the point next to him at the bottom right. Muriel took up the space between Nadia and Julian. There was only one point left, the top, pointing north – Iris stepped into the circle, and immediately it alighted, glowing white under their feet. Her stomach dropped, bilious, even as she settled gently onto her knees. 

“Focus on the power of the Magician. The memory of his realm.” Asra murmured. “Then, channel your self into that power.” He took a deep breath, and everyone else followed suit; the light burst around Iris’s eyes, and then...

The magic that overtook Iris was blinding; she felt herself being sucked down through the floor. Her soul felt torn asunder as she whirled and whipped through the void, battered by wild winds and waters, until her form slowly coalesced and landed on something somewhat solid; a hill made of shifting sands. Iris tried to get her bearings, but she tumbled down the dune onto her knees, stumbling forward into the sand, landing facedown. 

“Iris!” A harmonious duet of voices sang in Iris’s ears before the warm hands gripped her, pulling her upright; Julian and Asra, still dressed in their masquerade finery, their handsome faces awash in relief. Julian’s lips trembled, his hands shook, as he pulled Iris into his arms, pressing kisses into her temples, her cheeks, her ears, her hair. 

“Darling, _draga, draga moj….slatki draga moj..._ ” He murmured, his voice dripping relief as he held her close, and Iris clung to him. Asra’s gentle fingers wrapped around her head and pulled her lips to his, kissing her deeply. 

“My heart...I thought...” He murmured, his voice stuttering as his shoulders shook. “I thought I’d never see you again.” 

“Oh, heart, I’m here.” Iris crooned, pulling him closer to her, her lips guiding him into another deep kiss. “I’m here, I’m here.” Julian’s hand found Asra’s shoulder and pulled him, too, into his embrace, and the three of them were wrapped in each other’s warmth, even as the wind picked up around them, as the sand bit at their skin. 

“Where are we?” Iris whispered, after a moment. “This...this isn’t the Magician’s realm.” She pulled away slightly from the two of them, casting her magic about. This place was familiar to her, but it was so desolate, so isolating, so inhospitable…

“We must have lost the way.” Asra murmured. “But...this is definitely an Arcane realm. We can’t be far from the Magician’s.” 

And then the hairs on the back of Iris’s neck stood on end as she felt the shift, the sand split underneath her – she was sinking, the heavy weight of the earth against her heels, her calves. She clung to both her lovers, her nails digging into their skin as they realized what was happening. With a shout, Julian tried to pull her back, but the sand only tightened its grip on her; she cried out as the grains enveloped her, grated against her skin. 

Asra wrapped his hands around hers, and his soulful, violet eyes widened with fear as she sank deeper, deeper, to her knees, her hips, her waist; she stopped struggling, hoping that it would stop, but she slipped in deeper and deeper, even as Asra’s grip on her hand, Julian’s grip on her waist tightened – as they shouted, panicked, tried to haul her up bodily from the suction, drawing a pained cry from her. 

When the sands were around her chin, she took a deep breath, casting an insufflation spell, before she slipped completely underneath the surface, forcing both Asra and Julian to let go of her; it was then that the water swallowed her whole. 

With a gasp, she opened her eyes, her lungs taking in bright, electric air. Around her was a world-ending storm, the sky split with lightning of every color, bright pink, radioactive green, lapis blue, turquoise and tourmaline. She was standing solidly on a sea that roiled and rocked, staring straight down into the portal that brought her there; staring back at her, unseeing, were the faces, the wide, panicked eyes of her lovers. 

She cast her eyes to the horizon – in the distance was the shore, rocky, barren, black cliffs jutting out dangerously. On the highest cliff was a bone-white stone tower, gleaming and slick with rain, stretched into the stormy sky, struck over and over again by the lightning. 

Iris gasped, turning her gaze back to her lovers. The Tower. They were in the Tower’s realm.

She knelt down and touched her hand to the portal, but it was as firm as glass, unyielding as steel; she pounded her fists on it, forced her magic into it, willed it to shatter, all to no avail. She was soaked through with icy rain now, and she shouted at the top of her lungs, her mouth mere millimeters from the rend, but they couldn’t hear her, even though she could hear them. 

Julian’s fingers were shaking as he knelt over the spot where Iris had disappeared, almost an exact mirror of her. “Iris! _Iris_!” He wailed uselessly into the void, starting to dig, but his hands were like knives through water as the fine sand merely shifted back with the boiling hot winds. 

Above him, Asra sighed heavily, his brows furrowed as he counted backwards from seven. When he opened them, his eyes were startlingly clear and calm. “She’s gone, Ilya. She was never here.” 

Julian wheeled back to him. “That was her! She...she wasn’t a mirage, a trick...didn’t you...didn’t you feel her?” 

Asra shook his head. “You saw how the Devil manipulated us. This realm...the Tower’s realm...is trying to fool us, too.” 

Julian’s eyes were livid with fear. “Can she die here!? Her lungs could be filling up with sand as we speak!” 

Asra crouched and placed both his hands on Julian’s shoulders, shaking him once, firmly. “The Tower represents chaos, disaster. It’s mirroring what just happened to us earthside. If we panic, if we fight, we’ll be trapped here, and so will Iris. We have to stay calm. We have to let it happen, accept it – then we can pass through, safely. All of us.” 

Julian wrenched himself from Asra’s grip, darkness slicing across his sharp features, the wind whipping, wild, at his auburn waves. “I won’t let Iris die because of some hocus-pocus hunch! I won’t –”

The crack of Asra’s hand across Julian’s face was earsplitting, cutting even through the shrieking howl of the desert wind. Iris gasped and covered her mouth with both hands as Julian sat stupefied, an angry red welt already rising on his pale cheek; Asra’s face twisted into a scowl. 

“I knew we shouldn’t have brought you.” Asra’s hands tightly gripped Julian’s collar, pulling him closer. “If you don’t listen to me, we’ll all die out here.” He hissed. “It’s probably your fault that we’re here instead of the Magician’s realm, so shut your loud mouth and do as I say.”

Iris screamed Asra’s name, pounded her fists on the portal, as she was battered by the cold waves at her knees; lightning struck the sea so close to her that she saw spots, her ears rang, yet still the voices of her lovers rose to her as Julian’s brow darkened, his pained grimace deepening as he gently touched his own cheek, checking for blood. 

“You’re so quick to blame me for everything.” He sneered. “For Iris and I falling in love. For her death. For you and I falling apart. Do you ever take responsibility for what you’ve done, Asra? If you had swallowed your pride, if you hadn’t been a coward...if you hadn’t run...none of this would have ever happened.” 

Asra’s expression was frighteningly cold as he stood suddenly over Julian, the wind – or his magic, Iris couldn’t tell – lifting, ruffling the hem of his gown. “You think I don’t regret leaving with every breath Death allows me? You should be thanking your stars every day that I left. If I hadn’t...you would just be a washed-up, alcoholic plague doctor. My leaving gave you everything, Ilya, and it stripped me of everything.” 

Julian was shouting now. “You leaving put a target on both of our backs. I did what you wouldn’t – I protected Iris. In any way I could. I swallowed my pride, I debased myself, because I would do anything for her, to keep her safe.” 

Asra laughed darkly now. “You’ll do anything to martyr yourself, to prove yourself worthy, because you feel worthless. You let Lucio fuck you six ways to Sunday, and in the end, what did it matter? She died anyway.” The corner of his mouth twisted in disgust. “It’s your fault she died. And in the end, you were practically begging Lucio for it. Wagging your tail for him, rolling over for him with your tongue lolling, like a dog.” 

The noise that rose from Julian was so fearsome it made Iris’s blood run cold – with an animal snarl, he reached into his jacket and whipped out the revolver. Asra almost didn’t react in time, magically propelling himself backwards and down into a crouch as Julian emptied the clip, six horrible, echoing screams of metal scraping against metal, against fire. Teeth clenched, arms outstretched, eyes burning bright violet, Asra warped the space between him and Julian, curving the trajectory of the bullets so they slanted upwards and away. Still, one of them nicked his shoulder – Asra cried out loudly and clutched the wound as blood spurted through his white-gloved hand. 

Julian furiously holstered the revolver, unsheathed the knife at his hip, and charged. Asra, eyes still glowing, sidestepped him, drawing his own concealed athame from his wide sash, brandishing it wildly as he tried to staunch the bleeding of his shoulder with his other hand. 

Julian lunged, and Asra parried, but after several blocks it was quickly clear who was more skilled with a knife; with a wide swipe, Julian knocked the athame out of his hand and into the shifting sands, dagger pointed at Asra’s throat. 

“I hated every moment I was with him; I hated it, and I hated myself.” Julian hissed. “Every single time, I gave another piece of myself away, until there was hardly anything left of me. But every time I saw her smile, watched her sleep, safe in my arms...” He trembled, violently. “It was worth it. But then you _stole_ her from me, _erased_ her from me...the only thing I had left...” 

“I saved your miserable life!” Asra shouted, pressing a palm firmly into Julian’s chest – a sigil bloomed over the dark cloth of Julian’s suit jacket, and he was flung away, long limbs splayed out as he landed on his back, the dagger knocked out of his hand and into the sand, irretrievable. “Even after you slept with Iris, after you fell in love with her...I asked you to take care of her, not to fuck her the first chance you got!” 

Julian coughed painfully, the breath knocked straight out of his lungs – Asra approached him imperiously, eyes still glowing and hand outstretched, soft tendrils of magic dancing from his fingertips, threatening, threatening. “You...” Julian wheezed. “Iris thought you were never coming back. The two of you were over. And we...we had something...I...I loved her...” 

Asra’s scowl was frightening, completely warping his beautiful face into something twisted and terrifying. “You still don’t know the difference between sex and love, Ilya. You thought we were in love, too. But you...you were nothing but a willing piece of ass, a distraction...you’ve _always_ been a distraction…”

With one swift motion, a quiet, twisted cry, Julian drew the little knife from his boot and plunged it into Asra’s thigh – Asra doubled over and howled with pain as Julian withdrew the knife, brandishing it as Asra slumped over. The winds howled and the sands whipped, impossibly, in both directions, as if drawn up with the sounds of their voices, the pulsating auras of their anger, their hatred. 

“They’re going to kill each other in there.” Iris whispered to herself, her eyes flying wide. Her heart thudded heavily in her chest – she had no way of reaching them, of stopping them, of warning them. She was useless, just like the Devil said she was, all this power, but useless to help the ones she loved…and the very thing their anger bloomed for… 

The storm around her surged as the thickest bolt of lightning yet, a lurid purple, struck the ocean’s surface just meters from her face, electrifying the sea around her as the waves thrashed, the wind screamed. The storm was growing even wilder, as the winds and sands on the other side of the portal were picking up…

Iris’s breath caught. The realm was responding to them, their emotions, amplifying their fear, their secret darknesses, grudges and doubts and insecurities, the same things the Devil twisted around his claws to get what he wanted. Julian leaned in to Asra, pointing the tip of the knife at the young magician’s throat, drawing Asra’s chin up as he trembled with fear, with pain. She could not wait any longer. Iris knelt, closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her hands coming to rest on her knees. 

She held it all in front of her. Her death. Her resurrection. Her missing memories, her fractured image of herself. Her love for Julian; her love for Asra. Their complicated feelings for each other. Lucio’s tyranny, his abuse of his power, the pain he inflicted on Asra, on Julian, on Nadia, on Muriel, on her – her attempted rape, his attempt to steal her power from her. Her failure to stop the Devil, falling into his trap, losing her body, her body not her body, the one she was born with lost, lost, to the ether, long ago. 

She shook, she wanted to cry, to rage, to scream, but she centered herself. So much of this...so much of this, she had forced away, unable to truly unpack it – it coiled blackly in her now, this darkness, this confusion, immense and unfathomable. A voice whispered to her that it was too much, far too much. It was time to give up, to let the Universe take over, envelope her in the comforting, welcoming warm of letting go, of giving up. 

Iris looked up – gone was the stormy sea, boiling with anger. In front of her was a milky gate, columns a thousand times taller than her rising from a stark-white, dull-white sea, stone steps dropping down into the thick, unctuous water. In that water, faces, boiling, screaming, their mouths unhinged, so wide, so silent in their screaming, unable to break through, no matter how they struggled, how they clawed against the surface of the roiling, calm, white sea. 

Iris stood, shakily, enraptured with the sight of that unending, unboiling, of the gate looming above her, unmoving, unmoved – the faces that churned in the sea that stretched in front of her, forever, like Death, like ending, familiar and warm and comforting to her as she reached forward, her fingertips lingering over the surface, almost touching, almost joining, no, don’t, _don’t_ ; and yet, and yet, and yet, it called to her, the way it had called to her for years, for eternities, for millennia, since before the first magician had called down their Gods, ending the world they’d never known – 

From the waters, made of the waters, rising now, a shape, a body, soft sloping shoulders, round breasts, a full, warm belly, thick hips. For a moment, she stared at Iris, eyes black, all black and stars, the only dark in the white. Then she shimmered, her form splitting once, twice, and the waters fell away from them as they stepped forward. Three Arcana – _visions_ of the Arcana, Iris realized, all in Iris’s form: Death, her eyes black and glittering, her gown of dazzling gold and ink black, velvet, lace, dangerous and decadent. The Fool, hardly a teen, gangly, eyes wary, swathed in flowing, creamy crepe, tendrils of gold crowning the short waves that just kissed her neck, her skin studded with pearls. And the World, massively pregnant, a creamy arm resting on the crest of her belly, the only skin peeking out from thick robes, every color of green, of life. 

They stood in front of Iris, unmoving, waiting, waiting, their eyes serene, patient, dispassionate. Then, the Fool opened her hands to Iris, not reaching for her, but a silent invitation, a beckoning as she bowed her head. The other two followed, bowing to her, an apology. An acquiescence. 

Iris couldn’t hold it back any longer; she screamed, she screamed until her head split, until her eyes watered, she clutched at her temples and curled over herself. She screamed until her throat needled, shredded, until everything locked away in that hard crystal behind her heart, Asra’s heart in her chest, pounding like thunderclaps in her ears, everything was released into that milk-white void. She screamed, and then she sobbed, collapsed, fat tears rolling down her cheeks, her entire body shaking, shaking, panic and fear and terror finally rolling through her in riotous waves. She cried until she felt like she had been scraped hollow, until she was empty and blank, dragged through salt, purified, raw but whole. 

It was then that Iris realized she wasn’t alone, and she blinked her eyes open, away, over her shoulder. At her side was a child, no, a young teen, her head buried against Iris’s shoulder, wracked with sobs. Her simple dress was singed, and the acrid, gut-turning scent of burnt hair filled Iris’s nostrils. For only a moment, Iris hesitated, balked, before she wrapped her hands around the child’s shoulders, wiping away her own tears, sniffed. “Hey...hey.” Iris whispered. “What’s wrong?” 

The child lifted her watery eyes to Iris, and they both gasped. Iris’s own, too-large indigo eyes were blinking back at her as the long, singed hair fell away from the child’s head in large patches. “It’s my fault...” She wailed, her lips buckling, snot trailing down her cupid’s bow. “I couldn’t...I couldn’t stop it...the water, I couldn’t...” 

Iris gaped at her, her eyes darting wildly over the child’s warped features. Her mouth was useless, and something, something, pulled darkly at her, whispered in her ear. It was her fault. She should have controlled herself. She should have listened. Iris’s nostrils were filling with the smell of smoke, of ash, this child should suffer, she should sink down into the void and accept her punishment, she should, the anger rose hotly in her again, unstoppable, unfathomable…

No. “It’s not your fault, little light.” Iris murmured kindly, a soft shake of her head. “It’s no one’s fault. But we can’t change it now. You have to forgive yourself.” 

The child’s eyes glittered, flashing animal black for only a moment, before a little grin spread across her features. “Can you, Iris?”

And then she was gone. The sea was calm, the clouds, the storm, gone, the gate to Death’s realm, gone. Iris was still crouched over the shimmering portal, undulating now with the ripples of gentle, warm summer rain. She scrambled down to look through – Asra and Julian were still at each other’s throats, but the wind was dying down, she saw their body language change, soften, lengthen. Fingers trembling, Julian dropped the knife into the sand, before his skilled hands fell on Asra’s bleeding leg, the long white skirt streaked crimson. Julian deftly ripped the fabric with one hand while compressing the wound with the other. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I don’t...” He wailed. “I don’t know what came over me...” 

Asra gripped Julian’s shoulder as he grimaced in pain. “It was the Tower...I baited you, I was cruel...I didn’t heed my own warning…” He gasped, as Julian attempted to dress his wound. “I’m sorry, too...” 

And then they were both gasping, flailing, Iris grasping both of their arms and hauling them upwards with a shout out of the sea, no, she was falling in with them, the portal disappearing under her feet and bitter saltwater filling her mouth as she clung to them. 

“Iris!” Julian cried, so relieved, so panicked. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fine!” She replied. “We need to get to shore...Asra...” She could already feel the warmth of Asra’s blood seeping onto her chest from the wound on his shoulder. He whimpered and shuddered, but still found the strength to kiss Iris’s cheek. 

“Heart, you figured it out...” He whispered to her. “We were ready to kill each other...”

Iris shushed him. “Save your strength, Asra. We need to swim.” But the ocean was moving underneath them, as if they were caught in a strong current – Iris glanced over her shoulder, and saw the shore was much closer, a long stretch of black sand beach dotted with glistening volcanic rock before rising up to the cliff that held the tower. The realm was buoying them to safety. 

Julian and Iris each took an arm and lifted Asra up over their shoulders – Iris could feel her toes dragging against the sand, the bottom, and Julian could already stand. Then they were breaking through the surf, their steps steady even as Asra winced at the weight on his wounded leg. 

Gasping, soaked, exhausted, Iris and Julian found an outcropping of rock that would shield them from the rain. Julian stripped off his feathered suit jacket and laid it over the black, glittering sand before they lowered Asra gingerly down on his back. Still, he winced and coiled up in pain – Iris’s gut churned as she took in the sight of him, his gown streaked with scarlet, his gloves drenched in blood, his face contorted.

Iris hovered her fingers over the wound on Asra’s thigh. She frowned, and focused, letting the magic flow out of her in soft pulses of golden light. The wound carefully closed itself from the inside out for as long as Iris could hold the spell – when she felt the edges of her vision blacken, she gasped, and dropped her hands. The cut that was left was long, and still rather deep, but it was bleeding much less – Julian leaned forward to examine it carefully, procuring a small kit out of his pants and fishing a glass flask, undoubtedly of rum, out from the inside pocket of his jacket. 

“It’ll still need sutures, but damn. You’ll put me out of business, Iris.” His gray eyes fell gratefully to hers, pressing a kiss into her cheek while he unscrewed the top to the flask. Iris gripped Asra’s hand tightly. “ _Med_ , this will sting a bit.” Julian murmured to Asra, before he shook some of the dark rum into the wound. 

Asra grunted and arched his back a little, but he reached for the flask. “You don’t have anything to numb with, do you?” Julian let him take it before biting off a long length of wiry thread, as Iris moved to his shoulder. Despite the amount of blood, it was fairly shallow, and Iris healed it easily. 

Asra took a long swig from the rum, grimacing at the burn in his throat before letting his head fall back into the sand. “Remind me to never get in a knife fight with an ex-pirate again.” He mumbled. Julian smiled wanly, Iris giggled, and Asra’s violet eyes fell to her – her short hair, drying stiff and wild from the salt and the silt, her cape and gown rumpled, wrinkled, and ripped, but still, she was a welcome, gorgeous sight to him; he gripped her hand tighter. 

“Iris...” He murmured, then winced as Julian began sewing the gash shut. “How...how did you reach us?”

She shook her head softly. “I don’t really know. I noticed the realm was mirroring our emotional responses, so I tried to calm myself down. Then...then a vision appeared to me.” 

Asra’s brows furrowed. “A vision of what?” 

Iris bit her lip. “The gate. Death’s gate. I saw Death, and the Fool, and the World. I...I screamed, screamed at them, I was so angry – I’d been carrying around so much anger. Then...a child appeared. It was me. When I was very young, maybe 12 or 13.” 

Out of the corner of Iris’s eye, she saw Julian pause, his head turning slightly towards them. Asra’s eyes flitted to Julian’s, then back to Iris. “What happened then?” 

“She was crying – we spoke. She said something about it being her fault, and I soothed her. Then she was gone, and the sea was calm. But I felt...” Iris ran her hand through her damp hair, gathering her thoughts, her words. “So many strange feelings bubbled up in me. For a moment, I wanted to blame her. But I don’t know what for.” 

“It sounds like you passed the Tower’s test.” Asra said fondly, his thumb passing lightly over Iris’s knuckles. He lifted her hand up and gently kissed her fingertips. 

“Princess Nafizah said we had lessons to learn in the Arcane realms.” Julian mused quietly as he sewed diligently. “Maybe this was one of those lessons?” He was at the end of the wound now – he skillfully knotted the thread, and reached into his white silk shirt for his knife, to only grasp at air. “Damn. Lost both my good knives.” He muttered. 

Iris glanced around, looking for a sharp rock, something to cut the thread with, only to find three small hilts sticking up out of the sand out in the rain. She squeezed Asra’s hand and let go, crawling forward into the warm downpour. She grasped the smallest hilt and pulled – it was the short, pointed black blade from Julian’s boot. She handed it to him handle first, and he deftly cut the suture thread before sheathing it back in his boot, a small smile on his face as Iris handed him the longer dagger. The last, Asra’s athame, she plunged into the sand besides them, to be sheathed later when Asra could sit up. 

“I don’t know.” Iris said finally. “It left me with more questions than answers. And I can’t shake the feeling...that the Tower isn’t done with us. With me.” 

“And maybe it never will be.” Asra said thoughtfully. “No one escapes disaster and upheaval in their lives. No matter what kind of life you build, the Tower always looms over it.” 

Iris turned to regard the Tower that still stood proudly on the cliffs above them. They were close enough now that Iris could see the pinpricks of the windows that dotted the edifice. Julian was cutting long strips from Asra’s skirt to properly bandage the wound, though it was hardly bleeding now. “You should be able to walk on this tomorrow, but for tonight, you should take it easy. This seems as safe a place as any to stay the night.” 

Iris’s eyes flitted to the horizon – the storm had been so ferocious and dark, she’d hardly noticed it was night. When her eyes moved back to the Tower, she saw the slight flash of movement, something purple, something liquid. 

“Someone’s in the Tower.” Iris said quietly, the hairs on her neck standing up on end. She stood quickly. “It’s calling to me. I think...I think that person’s trapped.” 

Julian’s face fell. “You can’t be serious, Iris. We just found you again. Asra can’t climb those rocks, and we can’t just leave him.” 

“Then let her go alone.” Asra murmured softly. “She can handle herself. I can cast some wards that will protect us, if you’re worried, Ilya.” 

Julian’s mouth was a thin line, his eyes far. “I’m not worried about whatever’s out there. I’m worried about us fighting again. You almost bled out.” 

Asra shook his head. “The Tower won’t send us the same trial twice if we learn from the first one. We should be fine.” He took Julian’s hand, squeezing gently. “Trust Iris. Trust me.” 

Julian sighed heavily, then nodded, his mismatched eyes flitting up to Iris’s – he couldn’t hide the worry that swam behind them, even as he smirked. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Iris.” 

She stooped to kiss him quickly on the lips. “No promises.” She murmured. “But I’ll be careful.” She leaned and dropped a kiss on Asra’s forehead before setting off for the rocks, not looking behind her as the warm rain enveloped her. 

Long before she even reached the cliff’s face, it became clear her masquerade gown would no longer do. With one final look at her dress, Iris focused on the feelings of movement, of ease, of the fierceness that bristled in her chest. When she opened her eyes, the gown was gone, and she was wearing a gray dress with a low ruffled neckline, the hem uneven, skimming her ankles on one side, above the knee on the other. Around her hips was a leather petticoat, cinched around her waist like a belt – her boots were low, leather, sturdy. Unburdened now, she broke into a run, propelled by a driving sense of urgency, and when she reached the rocky cliff, she jumped. 

Her magic thrummed in her ears, and she floated upwards as if gravity had forgotten her. She pushed off on several rocky footholds, quickly scaling the cliff and landing easily on her feet at the Tower’s threshold. It was less foreboding than Iris thought it would be, the old stones worn and unassuming, the caulk crumbling and chipped. It wasn’t even as tall as Iris expected, only a few stories. From the sea, it looked like it had stretched on into the clouds endlessly.

Still, Iris held her hand cautiously out in front of her and listened carefully, waiting for the telltale sparks of warning from her intuition, the firing of her clairvoyance, but nothing came. This was right. She was right. Yet, couldn’t swallow down her nerves as her hand closed around the knob and slowly pushed the old wooden door open.

Irises, indigo blue, white, purple-throated, as far the eye could see, but the blooms were covered in a fine, enveloping coat of snow that shifted dully in the light of the full moon that absorbed nearly all of the night sky. No – Iris bent down to touch the velvety, sensuous petals, and her fingers came away both dry and oily, not wet and cold. Ash. The same heavy ash that covered the Lazaret, the ash in Lucio’s bedchamber. Iris couldn’t suppress the shudder that quivered through her.

“Who goes there?” A voice called – it was achingly familiar, dulcet and sonorant, but domineering, rising easily above the evening wind that couldn’t seem to shake the ash from the irises. Iris looked up – in the far distance, a tall, elegantly robed figure stood, cutting a striking silhouette against the full moon. “You are quite unexpected.” 

Iris noted the edge in the figure’s voice as she stood. They were not rushing towards her, rather holding their ground, curious to see if Iris would approach. And then recognition bloomed in Iris. It was Nadia. 

It was not quite the Nadia she was used to – though her lavender dress was finely wrought, feathered, rippling with silvery beads, and her posture was elegant, her hair was disheveled and matted, as if she had slept in it many times, and her clothes were filthy, covered in soot and ash, seams rent and hems ripped. Iris found herself running towards her, but Nadia reared back, her garnet eyes almost feral as they swept over Iris. 

“Who are you?” She demanded shrilly. “Why are you here?” 

They were only several meters apart now, but Iris paused, her heart pounding. “Nadia. Don’t you remember? It’s me. Iris.” 

“Iris.” Nadia spat, her lips lifting into her kingdom-crumbling sneer. “How convenient. You know my name, _Iris_ , so you must have a reason for finding me. Are you here to torment me? To wail at me about burning alive in the Lazaret, about how your husband died and you were left homeless, about how the beaked doctors ripped your infected children from your arms and dragged them to the dungeons?” Nadia’s eyes were filling with large, sparkling tears now. “I know, oh Arcana, I know. I have heard your lamentations for years on end. All I want now is some peace.” 

“Nadia...” Iris whispered. “For years? How long have you been here?” 

Nadia’s scowl grew wider. “It is impossible to gauge time when you’re dead, I suppose. When you haven’t spoken to a lucid soul in...Gods, I’ve forgotten. I’ve forgotten the last time.” 

Iris’s hand fluttered to her heart. “What’s the last thing you remember of your life, Nadia? Can you remember?” Her clairvoyance whispered to her feverishly, practically humming in her ears. 

Nadia’s face fell as she gently wiped her tears away, but not before they dug clean little rivulets into her ash-streaked cheeks. “I...the masquerade. It was...my husband’s birthday. Oh, Lucio...he...he was doing something extremely foolish...trying to summon down a new body from the Arcana...he...it failed, and he...he was consumed by flames. I...” She took a gasping breath – her mark was glowing in the gloom, but her eyes were screwed shut in pain. “I...they arrested my friend for his murder, and I….I released him from the dungeons in the night...but not before they tortured him, coerced him into confession, branded him with the murderer’s mark...I failed him, as I failed everyone...” 

“ _You_ released Ilya?” Iris gasped. “No, wait...Nadia. Nadi.” Nadia took another frightened step back, and Iris approached her slowly, her hands outstretched. “Nadi, you don’t remember me. But you and I, we were friends. I worked with you. I was your Fool, I was in your inner circle. Ilya and I...we were lovers. Do you remember?” 

Nadia blinked furiously, her brow furrowed as her wide eyes darted all over Iris’s face – her mark was glowing again. “I...I have no memory of you, Iris. If what you say is true...why? Why can’t I remember you?” 

Iris chewed her lip, uncertain how to respond. Then, a heaviness in her hand – she looked, and the deck, Asra’s deck, was there. She started, blinking back her surprise, but she quickly flipped over the first card. It was **The Tower** , a swarm of red beetles flowing like rivers from the crown of the tower, consuming the sore, dripping flesh of the stag. 

Iris took a soft breath through parted lips before she turned her eyes up to Nadia’s, blinking at her owlishly, with something like hope. “The plague...” Iris began softly. “It haunts you, doesn’t it, Nadia?” 

Nadia took a long, shuddering breath. “It haunts all of Vesuvia. It took nearly a quarter of our population, and most of the children.” 

“But you, Nadia. You said you’ve heard lamentations for years.” 

Nadia’s eyes sparkled again with tears. “I told Lucio. Many of our citizens no longer had access to clean drinking water. In the Southside, in the sinking district, the water stood stagnant, fetid, breeding other diseases that weakened the poor for the plague. The cinnamon bark – the plague even made it to our bathing waters. Oh, and the beetles, the infestation...it ate so much of our food, the crops. Half the city was starving. I begged Lucio, I bargained with him, I debased myself, but he was unmoved. He cared only for his cure, pouring our coffers into research, into managing his symptoms, into lavish parties. And as Countess, I was...I was nothing but a kept woman, a beautiful doll on his shelf. I was powerless. And every time I failed to move him, I failed the city. The realm. Our whole marriage...was a failure. Was my failure. And then...I just stopped trying.” She was sobbing now. “I drank. I numbed myself to it all. It was too much, and I sank down into the darkness. I was alone, I had no one.” 

“It would be too much for anyone, even the strongest of people, and you are so strong, Nadia.” Iris said softly. Before she could stop herself, she breached the distance between them and placed her hand on Nadia’s arm. To her surprise, Nadia didn’t pull away. “But you weren’t alone. Asra, Ilya...they wanted to help you. They tried. _I_ tried. I was with you.”

“I...” Nadia’s marked glowed again, and her eyes were misty, far away. She regarded Iris curiously, with a tentative fondness. “They kept me company in that last year. They were almost always at my side, making me laugh, cheering me on, helping how they could. But I...my heart was shattered, and I...I didn’t want to rely on them too much. I knew...I thought...I was afraid...they were both...” 

Iris’s heart wanted to break. “They were shattered, too. You knew. You knew the whole time, and you bore it all alone. Nadia.” Iris said softly, taking Nadia’s hands now. “I died, Nadia. The plague took me, and Asra, Ilya…it broke them both. It broke you. Oh...” Iris felt tears slipping down her cheeks. “You all loved me so much...” 

Nadia’s hand brushed against Iris’s cheekbones, catching her tears. “Iris...” Her eyes glowed with recognition, the mark still shimmering on her forehead. “I...it has been so long since I’ve allowed myself to think of you. I...I failed you too, dear Iris. I failed you in so many ways.” 

Iris’s hand flew up to Nadia’s, gripping it. “No. No, you didn’t. You did the best you could. You can’t… you can’t sink yourself in this grief anymore. You can’t change what happened, but you can change how you move forward. You...you have the power to change Vesuvia, to change the lives of the people for the better. And...in the future, you won’t be alone. You have me, and Asra, and Ilya. You have Portia, Nadia, oh, you haven’t even met her yet, but you, oh...you’ll love her, and she’ll love you… your sisters, Nadi! You have your family, your family who loves you so, so much. No matter who you are, what you’ve done.” 

Nadia blinked at Iris. “How can I move forward? I’m dead, Iris.” 

Iris laughed softly. “You’re not. You’re asleep. You’ve been asleep and trapped here in the Tower for a long time.” Iris grinned, a wild, beautiful smile. “You have a chance to make it right, Nadia. You have a chance to live again, to love, to set Vesuvia right, to do the good you’ve always dreamed of doing. It’s right out that door, Nadia.” Iris gestured back to the crumbling wooden door – the Countess looked at it as if it was the first time she was seeing it, her eyes uncertain. 

“Can I just...leave here?” Nadia whispered. “Please tell me...tell me this isn’t a trick.” 

“It isn’t.” Iris replied softly, holding out her hand. “I’m real. I’m here. If you’re ready to change...if you’re willing to try, just to _try_ to let go of the past...the future is waiting for you. I’ll be there. I’ve seen it.” 

Nadia hesitated only a moment, her eyes wide, before slipping her hand in Iris’s. And then they were rushing, running for the door, their skirts gathered in their fingers, laughing wildly together as the gray night sky crumbled around them, as bricks and stones crashed down and crushed the ashen irises to dust. Iris wrenched the door open, the wind was howling now, screaming as the very fabric of the Tower ripped apart, it whipped at the hems of their dresses, their hair, and still they laughed wildly, madly. 

“Find me!” Iris yelled, her hand falling on Nadia’s back. “Find me at the Indigo Child in the Market district! I’ll help you! I’ll always help you, Nadia!” 

Nadia only gave Iris a soft, knowing smile. “I know you will, Iris.” And then she stepped through the door, with Iris at her heels as the tornado struck down, ripping up the dirt, the irises, like the claws of a ferocious beast, but the door slammed shut behind them. 

It was only Iris who was back in the Tower’s realm, and she wasn’t worried for Nadia, but still, she ran, she ran, the sky screamed as if the world itself was breaking asunder. Iris turned only when she was halfway down the craggy path to the black sand beach, when the earth shook with a boom that rattled her bones. 

The Tower had collapsed into a helpless pile of broken stone – standing in the rubble, scaling the stones in her bare feet, was the vision of teenaged Iris. She regarded Iris curiously, smiling with only one corner of her mouth, the animal black of her eyes glittering, before she gestured for Iris to turn, to continue onward. 

So Iris turned back down the path, only to find the realm had changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC
> 
> ONE. TOWER. CHAPTER. I DID IT. 
> 
> I really like the Tower as a Tarot card? Like, don’t get me wrong, when I get it in my personal readings, it’s panic time (TM). But it’s a card that tears down the structures that hold us back so we can build something new in its place. It’s a card of rebellion and hope, even in its chaos and despair. Raze the world, burn it down, start anew. How beautiful. And how necessary, especially for our bbs, who are so entrenched in a hopeless system that’s beaten and broken them over and over. 
> 
> ALSO. If you don’t listen to Kishi Bashi, like. Why? I highly recommend listening to him LIVE, like the live album, or the Tiny Desk concert or the Audiotree Live video series (spoiler alert – EVALYN) because that’s where the magic is. Oooooooooooff. What a writer. What a musician. What a visionary. 
> 
> See y’all in the Star.


	2. The Star, Part 1: All We Have And All We've Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sigur Rós - Gobbledigook**
> 
> _CW: Allusions to noncon/ambicon, allusions to rape_
> 
> This chapter was lightly and lovingly beta'd by the inimitable [Aria_i_Adagio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_i_Adagio/works).

The black sand beach was gone – in its place was a forest of tall conifer trees, some as thin around as Iris’s wrists, but stretching into the sky like the cedars that crowned Muriel’s home. The sharp scent of pine, of petrichor and the sweet rot of mulch, replaced the smell of salt-musk, the tang of the sea. The bark of the conifers was snowy white, and papery to the touch, but their branches dipped and swayed above Iris’s head as gracefully as dancer’s arms, their needles as soft and fluid as feathers. 

Above the boughs, shimmering ribbons of light – of acid green and blush pink and robin’s egg blue – snaked slowly through the stars, leaving in their wake a trail of bright white stardust. Iris had to pause her descent down the rocky cliff to watch the lights dance against the pupil-black sky – she thought her heart would explode, her whole body would explode, to witness something so beautiful. 

When the rocky path leveled and Iris’s boots crunched against the dry, sticky layer of decomposing needles, she felt a familiar flush of panic rise in her. Asra and Julian – were they still on the beach in the Tower’s realm, waiting for her to return? She raced through the trees, letting her intuition guide her until she saw something glinting in the distance. A lake, freshwater, shoreline of broken, weathered shale, stretched on endlessly, the size of the ocean they just swam from; near its banks, she found an outcropping of slate where her lovers were sleeping. 

She had no idea how much time had passed – it had seemed only minutes to her, but now she guessed it was the middle of the night by the way the little fire was burnt down to embers, the remnants of a foraged dinner, the shells of cooked mussels, clams, and scallops scattered around it. Julian lay curled on his side next to Asra, head resting on his own arm, and Asra was still on his back, laying on Julian’s suit jacket. Though the night wasn’t particularly cold, they shivered in the night breeze. Without hesitation, Iris summoned an armful of blankets, rough but thick Nopalese throws, soft Alban knits, tufted Nuru quilts, and heavy bearskin furs, just like the blankets that she and Asra had on their bed at home. 

Home. An arrow of homesickness split through Iris as she remembered the flat, the scent of tea and oranges and cinnamon, the musk of Asra’s skin on their bedsheets as she piled the blankets over her lovers, careful to avoid the fire. She wondered bleakly if she would ever see her shop again as she sank down slowly behind Julian, laying her cheek on the broad plane of his back, her hand finding the bend of his slender waist. 

At the weight of the blankets, the warmth of her body, he stirred, groaning and stretching a little. Blinking his bleary eyes back over his shoulder, he smiled softly to see her. “You’re back.” He whispered. “You were gone a long time.” 

Iris smiled as he rolled onto his back, and she laid her head on his shoulder, threading a leg across his. His hand grasped one of her shoulders, and his eyelashes fluttered at the change in texture. “You changed clothes...” He murmured, voice heavy with sleep. 

“I couldn’t climb to the Tower in that gown.” Iris replied. “Sleep now. We can talk in the morning.” 

Instead, Julian pressed a warm kiss to her forehead. “I wanted to take that dress off of you.” He murmured, almost mournfully. Iris couldn’t suppress a snort. 

“You and Asra would’ve had to fight over it.” She quipped, nuzzling against his neck, breathing in his warm scent. 

Julian retorted without missing a beat. “I’ll stab his other thigh.” 

Iris burst out laughing. “Please don’t.” She gasped quietly in his ear after she regained a semblance of composure. “Then you might actually earn your murderer’s mark.” 

“Okay. For you, though, not for him.” He chuckled softly in her ear. 

Iris shook her head against his neck. “You’re impossible.” 

Julian smiled, his lips against her forehead. “What was in the Tower?” 

“Who. It was Nadia.” Iris’s hands shook a little as she let herself sink a little deeper into Julian’s arms. “She was trapped there, those three years she slept. She...she was mourning. Couldn’t move on.” 

Julian’s hand wound itself up Iris’s spine to her hair, then softly down again, his eyes awash in sadness as he met Iris’s gaze. “Who was she mourning?” 

“Me. Vesuvia. ...Herself. But I was able to free her...I mean, I showed her that she could leave. I think...I think I was the one who sent her to my shop, who set this whole thing in motion.” 

Julian hummed thoughtfully. “Then we have you to thank for this adventure.” 

“Don’t thank me yet.” Iris said with furrowed brows, her eyes soft and sad. “We still haven’t made it out alive.” 

Julian shifted, rolling Iris onto her back, supporting his weight on his elbows and knees as he hovered over her. “I believe in you, Iris. In Asra. You’ll both burn the world down before you let Lucy and the Devil have their way.” 

He paused, his voice dropping even lower, his lips parted and soft. “But even if, Arcana forbid, the liminal spaces end… being with you, with Asra… these places I’ve seen with you… it’s the adventure of a lifetime.” Above them, the lights shifted, casting a particularly bright pink light over the two of them, haloing his auburn waves, shimmering in his lovely gray eyes, making his freckled skin look especially flushed and rosy. “You… you are the adventure of a lifetime.” 

Iris ran her hands down his chest, undoing the remaining buttons of his white silk shirt. “Why do you only shower me in compliments when you’re trying to seduce me?” She teased him, even as she blushed. 

“Because I’m always trying to seduce you.” He murmured, his pupils slowly dilating as he touched her face, pushed her wavy hair away from her eyes. “I can’t help it. You’re so breathtaking, _draga. Volim te_.”

From far above them, Iris heard the sweetness of birdsong. Morning wasn’t far off. “What does that mean? _Volim te_.” She turned the phrase over on her tongue, savoring the sound of it. 

“I love you. It means I love you.” He dipped down and kissed her, and she kissed him back; their lips, their tongues were warm and soft as they tasted each other. Time melted away, leaving only the electrified places where they touched, Julian’s fingertips grazing her side, grasping the cinch of her waist, dragging against her clothed belly, Iris’s hands on the cool skin of his chest, trailing down the defined firmness of his stomach, clutching his undershirt. 

“Ilya...” Iris moaned softly as they broke their breathless kiss; his touch was so tender, his hands were on her hips now, gently urging her legs open so he could circle his thumbs against the fleshy creases where her thighs swelled. 

His reply was barely a whisper as his lips slipped down her neck. “You’ll wake Asra, darling...” He said throatily, delivering an exploratory nibble as his clever fingers swam up under the hem of Iris’s dress, his palms cool against her thighs. “Can you be good for me?” 

Iris giggled softly, at the playful glint in his eyes, at the rougish smile that peeked out of the corners of his lips, but her laughter was cut short by a little whine as Julian’s long fingers pushed her skirts up around her waist, letting the soft fabric drag against her sensitive skin, making her shudder. 

She was his then, and he relished it, a shiver of pleasure shaking his shoulders, his hands, as he made his way up, dropping open-mouthed kisses, lingering caresses, long, warm laves of his tongue wherever he desired on the smooth stretch of her lovely legs. He pressed a final, soft kiss into the lush cleft of her labia – then his silver tongue was reaching into her, so skillful, so hot, so delightful, as he circled her slowly. 

Iris bit her lip to silence herself as her hands snaked down her own body to card through Julian’s wild hair; he looked up at her through lidded eyes, through feathery, dark eyelashes, and a soft groan rumbled through her hips as he flushed, his tongue flicking against her with renewed vigor. 

Iris’s smirk was wicked. “Can you be good for me, Ilya?” She whispered. His blush deepened and his eyes darkened with desire, choking down another moan as Iris’s hips and stomach tensed, responding to a delectably firm press of tongue. 

It was no use. Neither of them were particularly quiet lovers to begin with, and once Julian had Iris staring down into the precipice, in the very throes of ecstasy, there was no stopping the sounds that passed over her lips, no silencing Julian’s wanton responses as he watched her approach orgasm, drank in her little pleasured whimpers and cries. 

It was just as she was coming, voice echoing against the pink-streaked dawn, that Asra’s sturdy fingers brushed through her hair, traced the little swells of her cheeks, the plane of her brow. “Oh, I could get used to waking up to this.” He whispered, his voice silky and drowsy as Iris, flushed and spent, let her head fall back against his touch. “Ilya, you’re so gorgeous with your face between Iris’s legs.” 

Julian’s breath was hot and heavy as he lifted his head, licking the wet from his lips as gray eyes and met violet over Iris’s still-quivering body. Julian had a look in his eyes like a man starved, but Iris was quicker, her fingers needfully digging through the ripped silk that covered Asra’s legs. He was already hard when she grasped him, when she pulled his skirt apart and leaned over him, teasing him with long warm licks down his entire length before sucking his cock down. 

If Julian was disappointed, he didn’t let on, instead gathering Iris’s skirts up around her hips and touching her from behind, making her grunt softly as she started to bob. Her fingers ghosted down the inside of Asra’s thighs, careful to avoid the stitches; he twitched slightly, kneading Iris’s shoulders as he sighed with pleasure.

With a gentle upward tug of Iris’s dress, a question, Iris relinquished Asra so Julian could peel the garment off her shoulders – for a moment, she was naked in his arms, her back arched and her ass pressed into his clothed erection. He didn’t waste it, pressing his lips into the sacred place behind her ear, down her neck as he palmed the smooth slope of her belly, cupped a breast and rolled a hardened nipple expertly between his fingers, making Iris hum softly. 

Then she was on her hands and knees again, one hand around Asra’s cock, lips and tongue working over his tip. He had kicked away the tatters of his long-ruined gown and was now disrobing from the gauzy shirt, the fancifully embroidered vest, exposing the beautiful expanse of compact, well-formed muscles and tawny skin, dusky and flushed. She reached up to touch him, to rake her fingernails down his chest, to thumb his nipples as she took his whole length into her mouth. 

Asra arched his back and moaned shakily, pushing his fingers through Iris’s hair; Julian watched them, lips parted, heart racing, heat stirring his cock as he fumbled with his pants with one hand and, with the other, circled the pads of two fingers against Iris’s wetness as she whimpered. 

“Iris...” His voice was quiet but pleading. “ _Draga_ , can I...” 

Her reply was to cast the barrier spell on him, to grasp Asra’s cock and pump while she turned back and met his gaze, her lips parted. “Please, Ilya...” She moaned softly, popping her hips up for him. 

He bit his lip hard and flushed even darker, the blush creeping down his chest under the unbuttoned silks that still swathed him, his eyes heavy with want. He grasped one of Iris’s hips and placed his other hand on the padded flat of her back, where a set of delicious dimples winked at him as Iris arched her back even more, pressing backwards, searching blindly for Julian’s cock as she turned back to Asra with renewed fervor. 

With a practiced motion of his hips, his hands, he guided Iris back onto him, slowly, cleaving her until he was fully sheathed inside her heat. Julian grunted, and Iris gasped, whined needfully as he started pumping. She fisted one hand in the blankets below them to brace herself while the other wrapped around Asra’s cock, mouth and fingers now working in tandem. 

Asra, his fingers still buried in Iris’s wavy, ocean-mussed hair, was in heaven watching Julian fuck Iris while she went down on him. She was so beautiful, her perfect lips, swollen and glossy, wrapped around his cock, the cute way she furrowed her eyebrows in concentration, the desperate and adoring look in her large eyes when she looked up at him… and Julian behind her, flushed from ear to sternum, shapely mouth wide and panting, his back arched and taut like a bowstring, the dark sky pinking behind him – he was beautiful, too, but, Asra realized in that moment, he had always been. 

The heat in Asra’s sacrum was tightening dangerously, threatening to snap – Iris was so good, so good, pushing all his buttons, her tongue pressed against the seam of his tip before she took him all the way in again, gagging a little as he brushed the back of her throat. He couldn’t help rolling his hips against Iris, guiding himself deeper while grunting feebly, helplessly. She swallowed several times, still sucking hard, her cheeks furrowed, and Asra could take no more. His hips stuttered, thrusting shallowly, erratically, and he groaned quietly as he came. 

Iris ran her hands slowly over the planes of his stomach, his sides, massaging the soft skin as she drank him down, savoring the way his fingers traced down her temples to her cheeks, as if to make sure she was real, she wasn’t a dream. Humming with satisfaction, Iris pulled her lips off of him with a pop, only for his hands to fall to her shoulders, guiding her up to him gently as he sat up. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders as their lips found each others, their kiss hot and wet and sweet. 

At the change of angle, Julian uttered a low, choked cry – the hand on Iris’s hip gripped tighter has he thrusted faster, his other hand snaking around from her back to her breast, groping her roughly. Iris hummed into Asra’s mouth, pressing back against Julian’s now fervent movements, and she felt Asra’s lips turn wickedly against hers. Then two fingers were rubbing furiously against her swollen, sweltering clit, Asra’s violet eyes gleaming impishly as he watched Iris’s face screw up into a little grimace of pleasure, her cries soft and needy.

Julian had been biting his lip, but now, as Iris bucked at Asra’s touch, pressing herself even more into him, the words tumbled from him helplessly: “Fuck yes, darling, oh fuck – Iris, Iris, Asra, Iris….”

Iris panted against Asra’s lips as Julian slipped through her and smoothed over and over against the dark, secret spot inside of her. She was shaking, she was whining and whimpering as she stared down the void again, the dark void in Asra’s eyes, in his touch, in Julian’s breathy voice behind her, so close to bliss but holding back, holding back for her so she could come again. Then it gushed through her, and she pressed her forehead into Asra’s as she cried out, as he cooed at her, slowing his now-soaked fingers and working her tenderly through it. Julian felt her grip him, hot and tight and pulsing in her ecstasy; he leaned forward, burying his face in her hair, his breath hot on her neck as he grunted quaveringly and came inside her. 

Asra chuckled a little as one hand traced down from Iris’s cheek to her arm, gripping the shapely swell of her shoulder affectionately as he kissed her softly. The other hand found Julian’s back, rubbing gently as his chest heaved still from the throes of release. He drank in the scent of her hair, her floral, delicate musk now amplified from their sex, his head spinning, his mind blissfully blank. 

For a moment, they were all still, catching their breaths and slowing their heartbeats on their knees, but the blankets called to them – Iris settled on her back, her head pillowed on Julian’s arm as Asra laid down on his stomach on her other side, his cheek pressed into her shoulder, arm looped around her waist. 

Julian’s lips found her hair again, this time the short, feathery wisps just between the whorls of her ear and her temple. “You didn’t sleep at all, darling. You should rest now.” 

Iris leaned into his kiss, but her eyes were trained on the sky, sparkling with wonder, with afterglow. “I’m not tired.” She replied softly. “Look.” She gestured up with her chin, gripping Asra’s shoulder gently, nudging Julian with a nuzzle. 

They turned their gazes to the sky – Julian gasped, and Asra laughed softly. The swirling lights above them had changed, eye-searing magenta and orange and blush pink, the colors of the sunrise but not, unworldly amplified to the point that Iris thought words would be useless to describe them. The sparkling silver-white trails they left now were golden, rose-colored, soft and delicate against the greening, graying morning sky, streaked with bottle blue and cerulean at the horizon line. It was then that Iris realized there was no sun with the sunrise, just the colors, the warmth; the bright light of the stars was still twinkling against the auroras. 

And the lake – the lake was a perfect mirror of the sky, the colors shimmering on its glassy surface, completely undisturbed by the summery rain that drizzled down on them now, warm and welcome and fragrant. 

Iris could have stared at the natural beauty in front of her for eons, but a pair of warms hands gripped hers, tugging her upwards and out of her reverie. Asra’s, eyes alight in childish wonder, blissfully unburdened in a way Iris couldn’t recall seeing him for years, urged her up into his arms, lifting her easily over his shoulder as he raced, stumbling over the shale, into the water, their shrieks of laughter like summer lightning through the warm morning. 

“Come on, Ilya!” He called over his shoulder when the water, silent and still despite their splashing, was to Asra’s thighs. “The water’s fine!” Iris could only scream in protest as Asra tossed her into the water with a cheeky grin – it was warm, slightly thick and lustrous, not unlike the water from the cave, but bright – under the surface, it, too, undulated with lambent colors mirrored in the skies that glittered through the eyes of light that slipped through the surface above her. 

When Iris rose out of the water, Asra’s eyes flew wide with delight, and Julian stopped dead in his tracks, his gangly, naked limbs akimbo as he broke through the surf. The shimmering colors clung to her skin, clothing her nudity briefly in undulating, translucent beauty before the water slipped down her body, returning home to the body below them. 

Asra let out another resonant, wide-mouthed laugh that brought out the very fine, adorable lines around his eyes, and he practically tackled Iris around her waist, spinning her around in the water before he fell backwards with her in his arms. They were both giggling, shrieking, when Julian, his pale body cutting silently through the water in a skilled breaststroke, grabbed Iris’s ankles and pulled her further under the water, only to be swept up into his arms as they broke through the surface together. His eyes glinted wickedly, oranges and pinks and fire red droplets streaming from his hair, his sharp cheekbones, his neck, as he pulled Iris in for a deep kiss. Asra, with a playful huff, splashed them both, and Iris recoiled, before clambering through the water to jump onto his shoulders, tackling him down into the depths. 

They played, splashing and chasing and tackling and kissing and holding each other, their laughter as delightful as the birdsong it fluttered against, until Iris was exhausted, floating on her back in the lake, staring up at the auroras that still glittered above them, now illuminating the satiny blue sky, familiar and uncanny, with something akin to sunlight. Fingers wove into hers, and she didn’t have to look to see it was Asra, floating next to her, water licking against his honeyed, shapely limbs, thrown askew like a sketch, drenched curls plastered to his forehead and neck. 

“I haven’t felt this free in so long.” Iris murmured, softly, squeezing Asra’s hand in hers. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a bright shape scrambling up a cliff of dark rocks several hundred meters away – Julian, naked as the day he was born, climbing the cliffs as gracefully as a cat to get a better vantage point. Iris easily imagined the glint in his eyes, the raffish angle of his grin as he explored, and the image made her smile widely, fondly. 

“Me neither.” Asra sighed, as if he was releasing every worry that had buried itself tightly into his chest. “Do you know where we are, Iris?” 

Her smile melted away a little, her features softening. “Respite after the ravages of Death, the Devil, the Tower. Peace and calm, simplicity and love.” She gestured with a roll of her wrist to the sunless sky above them, still pierced through with silvery stars. “The Star.” 

Asra gently lifted Iris’s hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles so softly that she would have hardly felt it if it weren’t for the little sparks each brush of his lips sent down her spine. “That’s not all the Star holds for us.” He murmured, his words warm against Iris’s wet skin.

“I know.” Iris replied, eyes alight. “But for now, I think what she’s offering us is reprieve. And protection.” 

“I think so too.” Asra stretched, his beautiful, sculpted back arching, his free hand lifting over his shoulders. “I could stay here forever.” 

Iris’s eyelashes fluttered sadly. “Mortals aren’t meant to stay in these realms long. Separated from their bodies this long.” A twinge of shame, of guilt and regret, surged through her, and she grasped Asra’s hand tightly. 

Asra seemed to read her mind. “Ilya and I made this choice.” He whispered. The water didn’t sound, barely rippled, when he moved, standing now, his hands cradled under the small of Iris’s back, her knees, as he lifted her out of the water into his arms. 

“You wouldn’t have had to make it if the Devil hadn’t outsmarted me.” Iris murmured, her cheeks burning as she pressed her face into Asra’s shoulder. “He made a fool of me.” 

Asra’s lips were so warm and silky against Iris’s forehead as he kissed her tenderly. “The Devil made fools of us all, my heart.” He carried her to the shore, towards the pile of blankets under the outcropping of shale. “It’s the Devil’s nature – he knows our every weakness and how to exploit them. It’s up to us to know how to resist him. I think...that’s why Princess Nafizah sent us here to the Arcane realms.” 

He laid Iris down gently in the blankets and curled up beside her. Iris wound her hand around his shoulder, pressing her forehead into the stretch of skin under his collarbones, between the firm swells of his chest. “Asra…he knew things about me that I didn’t know about myself. I...how can I face the Devil when I don’t even understand myself? When I don’t know...I don’t know who I was? Who I am?” 

Asra sighed deeply, tousling Iris’s hair – the sound made her heart ache. “I don’t know, Iris. I don’t know what the Universe has in store for us in these realms. I’m...a bit lost right now. I don’t know how to guide you. I don’t know how to put things right.” 

Iris kissed Asra’s chest, over his heart. “I don’t need you to put this right for me, Asra. We’re here, safe in the Star’s realm. I guess we just have to trust that the Universe will make it all clear soon.” 

Asra’s smile was wide, fond, against Iris’s hair. “You’re probably sick of hearing this, but you’ve come so far, Iris. The Devil may have won this round, but you had him on his toes the whole time. You are a fearsome magician, and every day you grow stronger.”

Iris tensed a little, her brows furrowed. “That was how the Devil tricked me. By offering me power… control.” 

Asra’s hands were soft, comforting, on Iris’s skin as he tenderly rubbed small circles into the place between her shoulderblades. “That may have been what he offered you, but it’s not how he tricked you. You took the deal to protect the ones you love. The same deal that Lucio offered to Muriel, to Ilya, to me. We all took that deal, in one way or another.” He kissed her hair again. “And for what it’s worth, strength is not power – strength is choosing how to wield that power. Letting love guide your decisions.”

“Is that what you do, Asra?” Iris asked quietly, her fingers snaking up from his shoulders to his neck. “Do you let love guide your decisions?” 

Asra’s voice was pained, and so, so small. “The line between love and fear is very thin.” 

“You’ve been better.” Iris said quietly, proudly, looking up at him. “And I can’t blame you now for being afraid. Julian...he showed me a memory, his memory of when Lucio gave you his ultimatum. You left to protect me.” 

“I left to protect myself.” Asra said quietly. “I told myself over and over again it was for your sake, but after the news reached me that you… I knew the truth. I would die before I’d let him have his way with me. And I thought...I thought if you came with me, I could protect you, even if Lucio made good on his word to send his men after us. But you refused to abandon Vesuvia, and I knew Ilya and Nadia would protect you until I could return.” Iris drew her hands up to his cheeks, gently thumbing away the little tears that fell from his deep, infinite eyes. “But that put you in more danger, it put Nadia in danger, and Ilya...I drove Ilya straight into the same trap...” 

“Oh, Asra.” Iris cooed, kissing his lips softly. “You can’t blame yourself for the horrible things Lucio did. All we have is how we move forward. We can’t think about what we’ve lost.” 

“I know.” He whispered, nuzzling his forehead, his nose, against Iris’s. “I know, heart. But I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to hurt anyone.” 

Iris shushed him softly, and kissed the corners of his mouth, his cheekbones, his eyes, his forehead. “My heart. My sweet, sweet heart.” She murmured. “Of course you never meant to hurt anyone.” 

And then they just held each other; Asra pulled the blankets up around their shoulders, and Iris snuggled closer into his arms. The morning stars twinkled in the stillness above them, the birdsong rose quietly into the sky, and Asra’s heartbeat drummed quietly in Iris’s ear, lulling her into a deep, welcome, dreamless sleep.

*******

Iris woke alone and with no sense of time – the sky she could see from under the outcrop was the same bottle blue, but with no sun in the sky, she couldn’t tell if it was an hour later or if she had slept the entire day away. She sat up and stretched, the blankets slinking down around her waist; the warm air against her nude skin made her feel like cream and gold. 

The air was alive with more delirious, delicious birdsong, but also the sound of frogs croaking, wind rustling through the fragrant boughs above, trunks creaking. And voices, low but carefree, teasing – Iris stood and peered around the rocks. Asra and Julian were seated around a low fire, Julian’s head bent over Asra’s lacerated thigh, carefully removing the stitches with his bootknife. Asra, ever watchful, saw Iris moving out of the corner of his eye and glanced up, smile warm. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” He called, voice playful. Julian’s gaze rose up in her direction as he snipped the last stitch. 

“Darling.” He said softly, holding an elegant hand out to her, beckoning her closer; she took it, and he gently pulled her to him, planting a kiss on the dip of her bare navel. “You didn’t sleep very long. Are you feeling all right?” 

Iris looped an arm around Julian’s shoulder and stooped to kiss him. “I’m fine. I feel...great, actually.” She hadn’t felt this rested since she had accepted Nadia’s offer, two weeks ago now. Probably before that, even. “You’re already taking Asra’s stitches out?” 

Julian shook his head in disbelief, shrugging. “The wound’s healed. See for yourself.” Asra shifted a little so Iris could lean forward to examine it – what had been, mere hours ago, a deep wound was now nothing more than a raised, smooth scar, the faintest pink. 

“It must be the realm.” Asra mused. “Maybe the water from the lake. Regeneration and rejuvenation.” 

“That sounds like the Star.” Iris agreed. She kissed Asra’s forehead. “I’m glad. I would hate for you to be in pain, or for that to get infected while we’re out here.” 

“Is that possible?” Julian asked, lips set in thought. “We, er. We’re all separated from our bodies.” 

Iris furrowed her brows. “I’m not sure. But it seems like even if we’re separated from our bodies right now, we’re responding and behaving as if our bodies are with us. We feel the wet from the rain, we need sleep, we have orgasms, we get hungry...” This was punctuated by a distinct growl from Iris’s stomach. She blushed a little, as Asra snorted and Julian chuckled warmly. “All said, I’d rather not risk it. Especially if we can die in these realms.” 

“Fair point.” Julian smirked dryly. “But hunger will get us faster than infection if we don’t find something to eat soon.” 

“I doubt the Star would let us starve here.” Asra said quietly, standing now. “If we can still do magic, we’ll be fine.” He flexed his fingers tentatively, and with a little burst of purple light, he was clothed – a slinky, tyrian purple shirt, buttoned low on his chest, a fantastically embroidered scarf of indigo, sky blue, and magenta, a fringed white vest and dark brown leather pants nearly the same color as his boots. He flicked his hand towards the fire, and the embers glared before igniting, rising. 

Iris glanced around the little camp and saw her clothes hanging midair as if on a line, drying from last night’s rain. She dressed quickly, even pulling on the boots, before joining Asra at the fire. He had summoned a satchel, from which he procured a cast iron pan, a loaf of crusty country bread, butter, eggs, even a little crock of rosehip jam. Asra pressed the pan into the embers and dropped a pat of butter in it to sizzle while Iris cut the bread with Asra’s athame. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Iris saw Julian shaking his head. He was gathering his clothing, his fine costume from the masquerade, now stiff and silty from the sea in the Tower’s realm. Iris sat up a little, watching him curiously. 

“Julian...do you want something else to wear?” She asked amusedly as he shook out his undershirt. 

He flashed Iris a roguish smirk. “Unfortunately, I didn’t pack for the wilderness, darling.” 

Iris snorted. “No, I mean, I can...” She stood and snapped her fingers in Julian’s direction. Gone now was his finery – instead, he wore a loose, billowing top of burgundy red cinched to his waist by a wide black sash, sturdy gray leggings and his favorite tall black boots. In his hands was a thick black woolen cloak, a satchel not unlike his medical kit slung comfortably around his hips.

Julian blinked back his surprise for a moment, running his hands over the fabric, examining the seams, the stitching, before he heaved a long, low sigh. Asra looked up from the pan where he was coaxing eggs to scramble, the smirk slipping across his lips betraying his amusement. 

“Let me guess...witchcraft, hocus-pocus, hoodoo?” Asra joked with an arch of his brow. 

Julian shook his head. “I’ve seen too much to be so flippant about magic now. It’s more...” Julian tapped his lip thoughtfully. “Most days, I don’t regret choosing science over magic. But times like this...” He gestured to the fire, the satchel, the impossibly beautiful realm around them. “...science is about as useful as teaching logic to a cat.”

Iris raised a brow. “What do you mean, choosing science over magic? You can do both, you know. It’s not either or.” 

Julian flushed, looking down bashfully. “Well, of course, it’s not either or, but both require so much study and discipline, you can hardly be a master of both...” 

“You don’t have to be a master. I’m not, at either. But I was a magician learning medicine, and you hardly batted an eyelash. Why couldn’t you learn magic now, if you wanted to?” 

Julian’s blush deepened. “It would be a waste of time. I don’t have any talent for it.” 

“Anyone can learn magic.” Asra interjected, taking the eggs off the heat. “Natural talent helps, sure, but basic alteration, practical magic, even minor healing spells are all extremely useful for everyday life, and they don’t take a lifetime to hone.” 

Iris’s eyes glinted mischievously. “How do you know you don’t have talent, Ilya? Have you ever tried?” 

“Not...not really...” Julian’s gaze had drifted downwards again; Iris stepped forward and took his hands, running her thumbs over his bare knuckles. 

“Humor me.” She murmured into his ear, her lips barely brushing against his skin, before she pulled back. 

“Doesn’t this take years of practice?” He muttered, his brows low and furrowed. 

“No, darling. Not for the simple spells.” Iris replied. “Now shush, and listen to me.” She noted the fine blush that pinked Julian’s cheekbones, the way he just drew the swell of his lip into his teeth, as she turned his hands over in hers so his palms were facing up and her fingers were cupping his. 

“Magic is the manifestation of your will. If you pay attention to the world around you, you’ll be able to call to you the things you need. The things you want.” Iris explained, her voice as rhythmic and sweet as a poem. “The more clearly you’re able to visualize what you’re calling forth, the easier it will be to direct your power. Now, what’s one thing you always want in the morning?” 

Julian’s brow arched jauntily, framing a raffish gleam in his eyes as the corners of his mouth curled up coyly. She snorted, and smacked his arm lightly. 

“Pervert. Try coffee.” 

“Ah, erm, yes….coffee. The first thing I want when I wake up.” He winked. 

Iris chuckled. “So now, you think about coffee. Imagine the taste of it, the smell of it brewing, the warmth, the weight of the mug in your hands. If it helps, think of a memory, one that comes to you often when you’re drinking it. And then...” Iris took a deep breath in, and a deep breath out; Julian mimicked her. “You manifest it. Will the coffee into being.” 

There was a pause, and Iris opened one eye to watch Julian – his brows were scrunched together, his face contorted in concentration. Iris laughed lightly, and squeezed his hands; they were already tingling faintly, though not nearly enough for this spell. “You’re going go pull a muscle, darling. Relax. The memory should come easily to you. The first one...it’s generally the strongest.” 

Julian’s eyes fluttered open, and their eyes met; the memory Iris saw in him was a nothing more than an image, a flicker, but it was vivid, poignant. The flat, the stuccoed window above the little table by the kitchenette, the fiery kiss of dawn on Iris’s skin. She was seated cross-legged across from him, her hair messy, her eyes still heavy with sleep, the cream and gray robe slipping down her shoulder, revealing a full breast, a rosebud nipple – held in front of her in both hands was a steaming mug of coffee, fragrant and fresh. Her gaze was trained on the sunrise out the window, her expression dreamy as she blinked her eyes to his; she smiled, giggled once, so softly it was practically an exhale, before she took a delicate sip. 

The weight caught them both by surprise as not one, but two, of the handthrown mugs from the apartment dropped into Julian’s waiting hands – one, filled with coffee black as pitch, the other swirled hazel with cream.

Julian’s eyes flew wide. “Did...did I do that?” 

Iris beamed at him, jubilant pride washing through her like a rising tide. “No natural talent, my ass.” She kissed him on the nose as he blushed and handed her the coffee he had summoned for her. 

From the fire, Asra watched both of them with a small, satisfied smile; Iris could practically feel the pride radiating from them, at Julian for succeeding, at Iris for guiding him. “Either of you think you could summon silverware?” He joked dryly, flipping the bread he was toasting in the pan with a lazy swirl of his wrist. 

Iris summoned plates and silver, and Asra dished up the eggs and toast; their breakfast was punctuated with contented and familiar chatter, sounds of triumph, as Iris showed Julian how to douse the fire, how to levitate objects, how to summon them from across the fire. When Julian magically refilled his cup without being prompted, Iris couldn’t help but shout with joy, press a loud kiss into his cheek. 

“See? All the time, you thought you couldn’t do magic. All you had to do was try.” She cooed at him. 

“It can’t be this simple?” Julian muttered, his thumb tracing the lip of the mug. “Just...willing what I want into being?” 

The corners of Asra’s mouth quirked up now. “Some of it, yes. You want water, you will the water into being. You want something you left on your desk, you summon it to you. You want to heal a cut, you urge the body to heal. Those desires are simple.” His arm was around Iris’s back, his hand on her shoulder, rubbing absentminded circles against the soft swell there. “But beyond that, it’s a lot more complicated.”

“Why doesn’t everyone do it, then?” Julian wondered. “There are some people who certainly have the will, but no ability. Lucy would have done anything to be able to do magic.” 

Asra opened his mouth to answer, but turned, alarmed – Iris had drawn a loud, gasping breath, her shoulders shaking with sudden, icy panic. “Iris?” 

Iris shook her head, breathed in for seven counts, out for seven, as Asra’s grip around her tightened – she could feel their eyes on her, concerned, electric, but she couldn’t meet either of them, or she knew, she knew, she couldn’t stop the tears. Finally, she murmured, her voice wavering: “The Devil showed me a memory. Lucy...Lucio tried to perform a spell with me. Dark magic, the darkest. Blood magic. I think...” Iris swallowed. “He was trying to strip me of my magic.” 

“What?” Julian arced to her, his shaking hands falling onto her knees, smoothing over them, a futile gesture of comfort. “When? Are you – ?” 

“I’m fine, now. I think.” Iris’s voice was so small. “I’m still...I’m not sure what happened. It was the masquerade, Lucio 16, when you left, Asra. I was so drunk...” She looked up at Julian now. “It was you who saved me. You’d given Lucio...something, a contraceptive, the night before. He couldn’t...” Iris laughed softly, a pained, airless sound. “He couldn’t get it up. He threatened me, tried to get me to use magic to protect myself. That...must have been what he needed for the spell to work.” 

Asra dipped down, his head nestled in the crook of Iris’s shoulder – she could feel the warm wet of tears on her skin. “My heart… I never should have left you…” 

She shushed him softly, pressed a kiss to his crown. “We can’t sink into that darkness now, my heart. My love.”

Julian’s hand was smoothing over Asra’s back now, even as they trembled. “What would Lucio earn from stripping you of your magic?” He muttered darkly. 

“Her magic.” Asra said certainly. “I know the spell. It’s in the spellbook, a deal with the Devil. It doesn’t just strip a magician of her magic, it transfers it to another.” He sighed, shakily. “And what Lucio wanted, more than anything in the world, was to do magic. The one kind of power he couldn’t wrap his hands around.” 

“But...” Julian’s brows were furrowed, eyes far away. “If anyone can do magic...why couldn’t he?” 

“No willpower. No control.” Asra explained. “And, I assumed, very limited natural talent. When someone with little ability isn’t able to channel their will, magic won’t manifest. The opposite is true for someone with immense talent – their emotions are the channel. You can exert your will in dangerous ways if you don’t learn to control your magic, and to control your responses to your emotions.” 

Iris nodded. “You hear stories all the time of young magicians accidentally casting love spells or trying to protect themselves from an assailant and completely overdoing it. Homes flood, houses catch fire, earthquakes shake foundations, towns.” She waved a still-shaking hand over the pan, the empty dishes, magicking them back through oblivion – she only just caught the way Julian’s eyes flitted to Asra’s, brows arched with a silent question. 

“What?” Iris asked, gaze darting from Julian’s stricken face to Asra’s, his lips just slightly pressed together, the barest expression of uncertainty. Then he sighed heavily, glancing back to Julian, who nodded once. 

“Iris...” Asra began. “There’s something else you should know...”

A rustle on the periphery of their little camp interrupted Asra as a figure emerged from the dense pines. No taller than a young child, head rising only to Iris’s waist, she was covered in snowy white fur and draped in a graceful white and gray traveling cloak. In one of her hands was a twisted driftwood walking stick, and a large brown leather pack was slung across her back. Her face was shaped like a terrier’s, long, curious snout and shaggy, floppy ears, but her clear, white eyes were alert and intelligent, human, as her gaze, disapproving, fell on Asra and Julian. She shook her head almost imperceptibly before her soft, penetrating eyes fell on Iris. 

Iris felt compelled to stand. “Hello.” She said softly, heart pattering. She knew she had never seen this creature before, but she was achingly familiar, the same way Vasalisa had been when Iris first laid eyes on her. She extended a tentative hand to her. “You’re a friend, aren’t you?” 

The only answer Iris received was a resounding bark, but it was a sound of joy, not a warning, and the dog-headed woman placed a long-fingered paw in Iris’s hand, squeezing gently before letting go, tail wagging. She planted her walking stick in the shale so it stood on its own before swinging her pack down to the earth, rummaging through it thoughtfully. 

Iris quirked an eyebrow at the dog-headed woman as both Asra and Julian rose beside her, Julian’s fingers steepled tentatively, ghostlike, against the small of Iris’s back. Asra, at her other side, was all tension, brows furrowed slightly in suspicion – Iris looped a hand around his waist and squeezed reassuringly, flashing him a small smile that he returned wanly, unconvinced. 

And then the dog-headed woman offered something to Iris, a small golden disc on a chain, battered with age. Iris took it from her, thumb instinctually falling onto the mechanism on its side; she clicked it, and the cover sprung open, revealing a compass covered in beautiful, fantastical designs of mint and moss green, blood red and gold inlay. There were no cardinal directions marked on the face, not even any symbols, but the needle spun wildly before settling, pointing directly down the shale-covered beach. 

“Wait.” Asra exclaimed, leaning slightly to see the trinket more clearly. “That’s _my_ compass. How… where did you get this? I lost it ages ago.” 

Julian’s brows furrowed; now he was leaning forward too, regarding the compass curiously. “The one that shows what you desire most?” 

“You’ve seen this before, Ilya?” Iris murmured, rotating her palm on her wrist experimentally. The needle wobbled, recalibrating, but settled in the same direction. 

“I thought it was an actual compass. Got us terribly turned around on our way to the summer palace.” He grinned. “Got a good ghost story out of it, though.” 

“A story for another day.” Asra interjected gently. 

“I’ll hold you both to it.” Iris said with a soft smile, raising her eyes up to the dog-headed woman, but she had disappeared like smoke on the wind. 

“That’s as strong a sign as any we’ll get here, I think.” Asra said, with a knowing grin. “What is it you desire, Iris?” 

Iris chuckled, a little darkly. “To kick the Devil’s ass. To get the Fool’s body back, my body back, and to banish Lucy for good. To protect the ones I love.” 

“Our heart’s desires are the same, then.” Asra murmured, kissing Iris’s temple. 

“Hear, hear.” Julian pointed a long finger down the beach, towards the lookout point he scaled earlier. “I was able to get a pretty good lay of the land up from up there. This lake flows into a river a few kilometers up the beach, and that river flows out into a sea. There’s a lighthouse at the mouth. Maybe the compass is leading us there?” 

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Asra said; he summoned two cloaks, his battered maroon for him, white crushed velvet for Iris, which he draped over her shoulders before swinging his own around his neck and over his head. 

Iris smiled, gaze falling on both of them as she took Asra’s offered hand, as Julian donned his own woolen cloak, hand falling naturally on Asra’s shoulder. 

“To the lighthouse, then.” She said, eyes starry.

*******

They walked and walked for most of the day. The compass lead them to the mouth of the river, just like Julian had said, before it directed them to follow the river down – even from the bank of the lake, they could see the sparkling, endless stretch of indigo sea through the break in the trees, though it was still kilometers out. 

Iris rather enjoyed the hike. The Star’s realm was disorienting in its beauty, the omnipresent auroras that circled above them like protective serpents, the light that was not sunlight that lit their path, the whole world splashed in something like twilight. The shale beach gave way to mulched, moist loam from the decaying pines, their pointed scent softened in their slow, gentle deaths. The forest vibrated with wildlife, bounding deer and fleeing rabbits, chattering squirrels, the evergreen sound of the birds. 

Eventually, the river ran through a small canyon, and the craggy slate rose up out of the earth – Julian, lithe and long-limbed, took the lead, easily scaling the steep slope and hoisting Iris up over the most treacherous passages, Asra bouncing easily up the rocks on his toes. From their vantage point, Iris could see what seemed like the whole realm – the conifer forest stretching endlessly, the silvery edges of the lake, but also strange packs of wildlife on the distance horizon. Over the sea, near the shore, were shimmering gray shapes that floated easily through the air, unlike anything Iris had ever seen before. And closer still were undulating pink, purple, and blue shapes like mushrooms – as school of giant, floating jellyfish, bobbing lazily through the air. 

“It’s like a whole ocean ecosystem.” Julian marveled into the wind, surveying the panorama through mismatched eyes – he had never replaced his eyepatch, and Iris rather liked it that way, being able to look into both of his eyes, the quiet reminder of all he had overcome. 

“Should we stop here for lunch?” Asra asked softly, lowering himself into a wide-kneed squat, resting his legs, shaking a little from the climb. “This is probably the best view we’re going to get.” 

Iris hardly felt hungry, despite them walking what she could only assume was all morning; still, she swung her bag down off her back and procured their makeshift lunch, the rest of the bread, two types of cheese, one hard, one soft, red grapes, and – she laughed as her fingers wrapped around the neck – a bottle of earthy red wine. 

They sat on the edge of the cliff, their legs dangling easily over the precipice as they ate – Julian flung one of his arms over Iris’s shoulders, his fingers lazily tracing the embroidery of Asra’s scarf as the magician leaned into Iris’s shoulder. They ate mostly in silence, passing the bottle that Iris uncorked with her magic (all while explaining how she did it to Julian) between the three of them, drinking in the otherworldly sights. The gray shapes in the distance fluttered ever closer as the auroras undulated above them, cerulean and misty lavender and turmeric orange.

It was Julian who broke their silence. “Asra, you mentioned before that the Star wouldn’t let us starve. What is the Star? Is that whose realm we’re in?” 

Asra nodded against Iris’s shoulder before moving liquidly, his fingers dipping into the folds of Iris’s dress and procuring his deck – Iris hadn’t even realized it was there, though she had hardly registered when it disappeared from her hands in the Tower, after she had drawn the card she needed. 

Asra pulled the top card before passing it to Julian – it was the Star, a voluptuous, cat-formed woman, her eyes blue and playful, knowing. “The Star is the Arcana that directly follows the Tower in the Fool’s journey. The Star represents a number of things, but she’s most often associated with discovering your higher purpose, of realizing dreams and taking strides towards the life, the future you want. She also offers generosity and love, especially to those who have just felt the shake of the Tower collapsing.” 

Juilian examined the card carefully, gaze tracing the shape of the Star’s arched form, falling on her gentle eyes. “She’s...she seems very familiar to me.” 

Asra smiled mysteriously. “I imagine she does. She’s a friendly and giving Arcana, and she is generous with her affinity.” 

Julian’s brows rose gently as he took a swig from the wine. “What does that mean?” 

“It means we know someone who has an affinity with the Star.” Iris said quietly, taking the wine from him with a quick peck on his shoulder. 

“Pasha?” He asked, his voice hardly a whisper, as Iris took a sip. Her eyes flew wide for a moment, before looking to Asra. 

“That’s...that’s not who I was thinking of, but...” Iris’s intuition, her memories of Portia’s unconditional love, her unwavering loyalty and belief, her generosity… “Is that what you meant, heart?” 

Asra shook his head. “No. I was thinking of Sabine. And...” He trailed off, brows furrowed as his eyes flitted to Iris. 

“Should...could Lucy compel her to the ritual instead? She’s not protected like Sabine is. Like the Satrinavas are.” Iris asked, a little swell of panic breaking over her. Asra took her free hand in his. 

“We can’t contact the palace right now.” He said quietly, his gaze steady as it darted to Julian. “But we have to warn Portia, as soon as we can.” 

Julian’s expression was pallid, but he smirked. “If anyone can leave Lucy quaking in his high-heeled boots, it’s Pasha. She can handle herself.” He paused for a moment, his veneer fading. “But I would feel better knowing she’s safe, that we’ve warned her.” 

“Me too.” Iris agreed, nuzzling her head into his cheek; he responded by kissing her hair, his lips lingering on her scalp. The three of them were silent again, Julian turning over the Star card in his fingers, Asra absentmindedly shuffling the deck as Iris’s hand floated to his thigh, right above the knee, squeezing gently, reassuringly. 

Below them, the canyon rang quietly with their ricocheting voices, like a monk’s chant, soprano and tenor and baritone layered over each other, the sound musical, bonechilling, beautiful. Iris ached – it had been so long since she had sang. Before she could think, she was singing, her throaty, sultry voice added to the cacophony below them: 

_“Now there you go again, you say you want your freedom….”_

With just that one line, it was as if the world around them came even more alive – the lights above them shone brighter, the birds sang louder, the shapes in the distance seemed to flutter closer. Iris, with a wide smile, her eyes sparkling, kept singing. 

_“Like a heartbeat drives you mad / in the stillness of remembering what you had / and what you lost….”_

At her side, Asra laid his head back down on Iris’s shoulder; she could practically feel the calm, the contentment radiating from him as he listened to her sing. Julian, on her other side, was watching the world with wide-eyed wonder, carefully tracking the progress of the herd of gray in the distance. 

“Iris… I think they’re coming closer.” He whispered excitedly to her – even these soft sounds echoed below them, amplified like a lover’s sigh. “Keep singing, _draga moj._ ” 

With a little smile, a squeeze of his hand, Iris kept singing, her eyes shut against the starlight that shimmered against her skin. She focused only on the sound of her voice, the echoes below her, and the feeling of Julian’s hand in hers, Asra’s cheek on her shoulder, the rise and fall of his chest, Julian’s warmth at her side. She sang through the song, a gentle, compassionate lamentation, and when she reached the last note, she held it for as long as her lungs would allow. 

_“When the rain washes you clean you’ll know...you will know...”_

When Iris opened her eyes, she gasped; the creatures had flocked to them, floating and swirling in leisurely figure-eights above their heads. They were giant manta rays, their bellies as white as snow, their soft eyes wet and glistening. 

Julian was standing, his arm stretched high above him, fingertips swimming softly over the underside of one of the mantas as it drifted past, his mouth wide with childlike laughter. Asra was standing, too, watching from a careful distance, his brows arched and his smile amused, tender, his gaze trained on Julian and his joy, even as one of the mantas nosed against him, as he fondly rubbed its slick, velvety snout, the very same motion he used to pet Faust. 

Hearing that Iris had stopped singing, Asra’s gaze floated to her, his lips parted softly as he regarded her with wonder, with love. “You enchanted them, Iris.” He said, with a beautiful, knowing smile. “Your song summoned them here.” 

Iris, face flushed with a tinge of embarrassment, held her hand out to the creatures that circled them. One of them arched their body against her fingers like a cat, and Iris was shocked at how smooth, like wet silk, their hide was. Another nosed against Iris’s shoulder, and another at her navel; Iris devolved into a fit of giggles as she was swarmed, as they knocked her off her feet and onto the ground, noses rolling in her lap like tumbling puppies, fins flapping around her like silks on a clothesline.

One in particular – a smaller one, with eyes the warmest brown she had ever seen – flew down in front of Iris and rolled over, exposing her downy white belly. Iris gently ran her palm down the warm, velutinous plane, just as she would pet a cat sleeping in a sunbeam. The ray rumbled with happiness, the loud purr reverberating through Iris’s fingers, practically rattling her bones; when their eyes met, something like recognition flashed through them, a deep sense of happiness followed by a quiet curiosity, of friendliness. 

Iris turned to her lovers. “I think they want to help us. Take us to the lighthouse.” 

“Oho?” Julian’s eyes lit up with a glint of mischief, of adventure. “Can’t say I’ve ever ridden a manta ray before.” 

As if in response, the ray in front of Iris rolled back upright and wiggled a little as if in assent, before dipping slightly down. Asra stepped forward and placed a hand on the small of Iris’s back, the warm surge of his magic lifting her gracefully onto the creature’s back. She settled on her stomach so she gripped the edge of each fin. The ray drifted experimentally upwards, and Iris cried out in shock before shaking with laughter, her mouth wide and her head back. 

The ray circled slowly above Asra and Julian as they carefully stepped up onto their mounts – then, with a bombinating cry, the herd rolled out over the treetops, beginning their leisurely descent down to the sea. Despite their honey-slow pace, the wind whipped through Iris’s hair as she howled with ecstatic laughter – at her side, she could hear Julian’s barking laugh, and even Asra, normally so cool and collected, was whooping with joy as he clung onto the back of his ray. 

The tangled conifer forest below them slowly gave way to steppe completely overgrown with a tapestry of tulips, red and yellow and riotous sunset orange, the gentle flap of the ray’s fins setting them to waltz. Ahead of them, the sea stretched and winked, liquid turquoise and cobalt that almost perfectly matched the soft, sunless sky above them. 

And then, they were at the lighthouse, the rays circling the tall tower once before settling on the long sugar sand beach that sprawled out into the horizon, dotted with more shale rocks. The lighthouse was set on a shale cliff about 50 meters tall, stone steps carefully etched and wound around up to its base in looping hairpins. The lighthouse itself was gorgeous, a relatively squat and wide five stories dotted with ornate windows of blackened wrought iron on each of the faces that made the lighthouses hexagonal shape, undoubtedly tracking the rise of the spiral staircases and landings housed inside. The light itself was massive, caged in more beautiful industrial iron, and the bricks that held the lighthouse aloft were same color as the sand under their feet as they slid easily off the backs of their rays. 

“That looks exactly like the Nevivon lighthouse!” Julian gasped, his eyes misty. “It...it’s been so long since I’ve thought about it. I’d almost forgotten what it looked like.” 

Iris took his hand, squeezing it affectionately. The light from the massive cage passed over them like a soft sigh, flickering and faint. Iris saw Asra’s brows furrow with worry out of the corner of her eye, his focused gaze trained on the lighthouse. 

“Heart?”

“The Star is in there. But she’s…” Asra paused for a moment, searching for the words. “Something’s wrong. I just can’t put my finger on it.” 

“Do you think it’s a trap?” Julian asked, the edge in his voice evaporating all nostalgia. “Someone taking the Star’s shape?” 

“No.” Iris said softly – she pulled the compass out from the folds of her dress, the chain looped around her neck. The needle was practically vibrating as it pointed to the cliff face in front of them. “Whatever will lead me to what I desire, it’s in there. The Star will set us on the right path.” 

“Your higher purpose.” Asra agreed, turning his soulful eyes to Iris. “The path of the light.” 

“Our purpose.” Iris corrected him, fingers circling the muscles of his arm, squeezing softly. Julian’s grip on her other hand tightened a little. “You’re both here with me. This is our journey.” 

They ascended the steep steps up the cliff face to the bricked courtyard surrounding the lighthouse, grown over with herbs, flower beds, creeping vines and berry bushes. The white wooden door was thrown open, tempting the balmy, fragrant sea breeze. Inside was a home, surprising Iris – a gleaming white kitchen with a beautiful driftwood table, a windowbox full of calendula, a roaring hearth and shelves groaning with books and trinkets. The sturdy wooden stairs spiraled upwards, and Iris felt her heart pounding uneasily in her chest as they raced up them until they came to a trapdoor, which Asra, in the lead, flung open easily.

This room was directly below the cage of the light, accessed via a wrought iron ladder up to a platform of fantastic, swirling, wrought-iron designs. The room was a bedroom of sorts, a low trundle bed framed by two tall windows, a desk covered with books, papers, parchment, more groaning bookshelves and an overstuffed armchair, on which was coiled a happily dozing tortoiseshell cat. Other than that, the room was empty of anyone, drawing Iris’s eyes up to the beacon; she let out an audible gasp. 

Hundreds, thousands of gold metal loops circled slowly, so slowly, through the massive cage, each lit with the light of a small star – the entire night sky, the entire solar system, the entire galaxy, rotating in miniature above them. But the lights twinkled dimly, some flickering so softly that they threatened to sputter out. 

“Mesmerizing, isn’t it, starchild?” A voice behind her cooed, a voice that she had only heard once in a memory, a voice that alighted every nerve in her body with the dull ache of nostalgia, of home. Iris wheeled around, frantically, to the face of her aunt, the wild brown-haired bob streaked with gray at the temples, her long, slinky frame, the laugh-lines and crows’ feet and rimless glasses that framed her sea blue eyes, pupils slit like a cats, large and kind and curious. She was dressed in a simple robe of calming blue, the same color as her eyes, tied around her waist and flowing liquidly around her heels, her wrists. The Star.

She raised her hand and let her thumb drift over the swell of Iris’s cheek, down to her jawline. “But just think of how beautiful it will be when you’re through with it.” 

“Aunt Opal?” Iris whispered shakily. “It can’t be...” 

The Star hummed, her dark pupils widening with compassion. “I’m not really your aunt, Iris, any more than my sister Death is really you when she assumes your form. But I knew Opal well, intimately even. I guided her through many of life’s challenges. And you...you were her sweetest challenge, her highest purpose. We spoke of you often.” 

“I...” Iris stammered, eyes wide. “I was her highest purpose?” 

The Star’s smile was warm, the fine lines around her eyes crinkling. “In due time, starchild.” She turned to Julian, wide-eyed but wary at Iris’s side, and placed a hand softly on his shoulder. “You, you dear brave thing, have grown so much. It wasn’t easy for you to watch Iris fight for your safety, was it? You want to protect her with every fiber of your being. Her and…” The Star’s sea-blue eyes flitted to Asra very briefly, before snapping back to Julian. “...and everyone else you love. But you’re learning you can’t protect them. That you cannot draw your worth from protecting them, from always making them happy.” 

Julian, wide-eyed, blinked owlishly at the Star. “Er...um, I...” 

She giggled softly, and tapped the pad of her pointer finger once on his lips, her eyes playful. “There’s no need to speak, starchild. You have changed so much since The Universe compelled you to cross Iris’s path all those nights ago. The Universe is not done with you. She will ask you to change yet again.” 

Her eyes slid now to Asra, and her smile widened, but her eyes softened, saddened. “Sweet Asra. It’s hard for you to see Opal’s form, too, isn’t it?” Iris ached at the sparkle of tears in Asra’s eyes – she reached for his hand, and he took it, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles absentmindedly as he met the Star’s gaze. “Yet another loved one you had to lose.” She whispered, her eyes leveling with his. In Opal’s form, they were exactly the same height.

“She was kind to me.” He responded quietly, his voice almost steely.

The Star raised Opal’s wild, thick brown eyebrows. “That’s an understatement, isn’t it? She cared for you after you were orphaned. You and your friend, Muriel. She fed you, and let you sleep in her shop when it was too cold to sleep outside. She helped you hone your magic, taught to heal and to mix herbs. She tried to show you that people could be good. And then, when Iris came...she trusted you. Before she died, she gave you her blessing. She saw how you cared for Iris.” She pursed her lips, her brows low. “She would be so proud of you, Asra, for how far you’ve come. But you still have so much to learn.” 

Iris gripped Asra’s hand tightly, a spark of something hot igniting in her chest. “Why are you telling us all of this?” 

The Star turned her back to them, raising one hand; the apparatus above them, the hundreds of glittering lights that made up the beacon, whirled on their well-oiled gears, spinning chaotically until every single star aligned in one row pointing out towards the sea. The light that streaked through all of them, magnified through each tiny crystal it passed through, pierced the undulating sky as it flew over the ocean in a powerful beam. 

The Star looked at the three of them over her shoulder, a playful, catlike smile flitting across her features. “The three of you have seen so much, overcome so much together. Your love for each other radiates from all of you, beautifully. Together, you are formidable. You are frightening. You are a force. And yet...”

The air above them shimmered and glittered; the beacon disappeared, and instead, a portal, a view into the mortal plane, was shown to them. Muriel, sitting cross-legged on the floor of Nadia’s contemplation tower, knitting fastidiously as Inanna and Vasalisa slept, each of them with a snout curled on one of his thighs. Faust, draped lazily over his shoulder, her tongue flickering languidly as the needles clicked rhythmically. Malak perched, eyes alert, on Julian’s shoulder – his and Asra’s bodies were slumped over, curved towards each other’s, not far from where Muriel sat. Every few moments he glanced up at the two prone bodies he was watching over, expression pained, etched with worry, with fatigue, as the daffodil-yellow blanket grew larger and larger... 

The scene shifted. Lucio stomped through the hallways of the masquerade, his crimson eyes livid as he shoved away the partygoers without the sense to flee out of his way, throwing open doors, looking for subjects to adore him. He stumbled upon Sabine’s room, who glared at him with her deep brown eyes as she sang out her songs before turning away from him, to the rest of her audience, pointedly ignoring him. He huffed, face red, mortified; Nadia and Natiqa and Portia behind him, absolutely resplendent in their finery, sniggered into their fingers as he was scorned. Lucio turned bright red, his face screwed up in a petulant scowl, before he stormed back out of the room… 

The scene shifted yet again as Navra, Nahara, and Nahara’s handsome consort searched Lucio’s room frantically, their fingers falling on every possible surface, his desk, his bookshelves, his nightstands, even ripping back the sheets of his bed as they searched for the entrance to the private dining room, Navra’s elegant hairdo coming undone as she scurried around the room frantically, past the proud, immense portrait that took up the entire southern wall…

The line of Opal’s mouth was pressed thin as the Star waved her hand again, the beacon coming back into view. “Your friends are trapped at the palace, racing against time to stop Lucio and the Devil. Time works differently here in the Arcane realms, but you still have much ground to cover.” She turned back to them now, her eyes soft and sad. “The challenges that still lie ahead of you...your higher purpose is incredibly dangerous. You’ll be risking your souls and your sanity to make it through. Risking your love for each other. You will show each other the rawest parts of yourselves, for better or for worse.” Her hand closed into a soft fist, and her knuckles rested against her thin lips. “Are you ready for that?” 

Iris, her brows set, her lips parted, looked to Asra, whose expression was cool, calm, but his eyes flitted to hers as he gave her hand in his a soft squeeze. Iris turned to to Julian at her other side; his mouth was set in a thin, concerned line, but his eyes were warm as he returned Iris’s gaze, a soft smile curling at the edges of his lips. Iris leveled her gaze to the Star, to Opal’s curious gaze, and she nodded once, firmly. 

The Star’s smile widened, showing pointed, fanged teeth, as the light above them flared above them, the beam bursting with renewed energy as the stars blazed to life. “Then you may beat the Devil yet.” She said, her voice a sibilant purr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> thunderrrr only happennnnnns when it’s raaaaaiiiniiiiiiiing
> 
> See you in Part 2 of the Star.


	3. The Star, Part 2: Why In the Night Sky Are the Lights Hung?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sufjan Stevens - Fourth of July // Karen O, Danger Mouse - Turn the Light**
> 
> _CW: Discussions of infertility_

Iris worried her lip, staring into Opal’s ocean blue eyes as the Star regarded her. “But how do we beat the Devil? Can you tell us?” Iris asked; she could hear the edge of desperation in her voice, the panic that rose like fire in her throat. 

The Star laughed, and placed a warm hand on Iris’s shoulder. “It’s not my place to show you how. It’s only my place to show you what, and that you can.” She murmured. “You’ve battled through Death, through trials, through the Devil’s tricks to get here, and still yet, you have tests to face that will strengthen your resolve, strengthen or weaken your love.” She pointed to the beam of focused light above her. “All I can tell you now is to follow the light.” 

“Across the sea?” Julian asked incredulously, one dark brow lifted. “Surely you don’t expect us to swim?” 

The Star laughed, heartily, beautifully, the same laugh as Opal; Iris’s heart ached as the Star cupped Julian’s cheek in her hand, thumbing gently against his lips. “Trust the Universe to provide what you need, and you shall never want.” 

Julian blushed, cowed, and Iris squeezed his arm reassuringly. It was Asra who spoke next. “Why did the Universe ask us to do this?” His eyes were downcast, far away – the tinge of despondency in his voice broke Iris’s heart.

The Star’s eyes grew soft and sad again. “I think you already know the answer to that, Asra. When you bargained with the Fool, with the Magician, with Death...you knew you were asking for something exceptional. Did you think the Universe would never come calling for her payment? Every action has a price. You know this.” 

She crossed the room to her desk, picking up a massive book that seemed to be bound with twinkling starlight and thumbing through it. “And yet, you are not to blame for any of this, starchild. This was woven into the loom of the Universe long before any of you were a pinprick in your mother’s belly, a spark in your father’s eyes.” Her gaze fell upon a page now, her eyes scanning the words before lifting up, sparkling, to the three of them. “Iris can stop the Devil. But she can’t do it alone. She can only do it if the stars align, with the wind at her back. With her loved ones at her side.” She gestured again to the apparatus above her. “Follow the light.” 

“Follow the light.” Iris murmured. “Easy enough. But...” her voice trailed off, uncertain. The Star’s brows quirked. 

“What is it, Iris?” She said through a small smile, setting down the sparkling book in her hands. 

“You said I was Opal’s highest calling. What did you mean by that?” Iris’s voice faltered in her chest, even as Julian’s hand fell on her shoulder, pulling her gently closer to him. 

The Star’s eyes glimmered, and above them, the apparatus faded away, wavering images shivering into view above them. Iris felt a familiar rush wash over her as beads of heat settled on her forehead, her temples, her back. 

_The scent in the flat was overwhelming, at first. The lingering smell of juniper, the incense burnt day and night to cover the astringent vinegar, the sharp destruction of bleach, and the wet, oppressive cling of sick, blood and vomit and sweat. The bay window that wrapped around the bed was the tidiest Iris could ever remember, the bedside table not littered with books, scarves, trinkets, random drams, but carefully labeled vials and tinctures from the apothecary, a small vase with a riot of pink and white peonies that Iris had all but stolen, cut from a bloom in local park under the cloak of night._

_Opal was sitting up, her back pressed against the headboard, buttressed by a small army of pillows; curled up at her elbow, purring contentedly, was Sitara, the chubby tortoiseshell cat that had claimed Opal as her own. In Opal’s lap was a book, a novel, and her wild brows arched as she licked her thumb and turned the page. Even with her hair falling out, even with her body failing her, she was reading, she was learning – it made Iris’s heart ache as she sat on the edge of the bed, placing the washbasin of warm water on the bedside table._

_Iris pressed the back of her trembling hand against Opal’s temple. “Your fever seems to have gone down, and you look lively. How do you feel?”_

_“When the apothecary gives you all the morphine you could ask for, you know it’s the end.” Opal replied quietly, evenly, as she placed a metal Seong bookmark in the book and set it down on the bed beside her. “It doesn’t matter if my fever has broken.”_

_Iris’s smirk was small, strained, but impish. “Or it’s one of the many benefits of boning the apothecarist.”_

_Opal chuckled, cobalt blue eyes sparkling. “Blazhe isn’t getting much warmth from me these days, Iris.” She placed a frail hand on Iris’s wrist; Iris had already wrung the warm, wetted washcloth, ready to wipe Opal’s brow. “That can wait, clove. Come.” She opened her arms, and, with tears springing into her eyes, Iris let the washcloth slip back into the warm water and crawled into the bed, laying her head on her aunt’s lap._

_Opal gently stroked Iris’s hair, careful not to muss the intricate braids that looped back to the nape of the neck before tumbling down in natural waves – no doubt an Asra creation. Before, it had been her who braided back Iris’s beautiful blonde hair, but now her hands shook too much, and Asra had a knack for it, having braided Muriel’s hair since they were children._

_She smiled wanly; she couldn’t do much now other than lay awake and wait for Death. Asra had taken over all of Iris’s education and nearly all of the girl’s care, while Iris had stepped up to the responsibilities of running the shop. They were both attentive to Opal, Asra cooking for her and feeding her, reading for her when she was too weak, while Iris wiped her brow and sang to her and changed the sheets, administered her medicine._

_And Asra was so good to Iris, so conscientious of her: braiding her hair for her in the mornings; vacating the futon in the back room that Opal had long said was his when it was clear she and Iris could no longer share the bed; holding Iris in the stairwell when she got overwhelmed, where they thought Opal wouldn’t overhear, whispering soothing nothings in Nuru as she cried. He was careful, respectful – she was still so young – yet Opal saw the way he looked at Iris when she wasn’t paying attention, like his entire world would crumble to ash without her in it._

_“Iris.” Opal cooed, her voice warm, even if it was faint. “Clove. I have something I need to tell you.”_

_“Shhh.” Iris shushed Opal feebly. “You should rest.”_

_“Iris.” Opal’s voice was a little firmer now, but still steeped with compassion, with empathy. “We don’t have much time.”_

_The sound that rose from Iris’s throat was soft and choked, not quite a sob, but not far from it. “Don’t talk like that. We don’t know.”_

_“Iris. Starchild.” Opal pressed her thin lips together in thought, then gestured to the desk, just out of arm’s reach. “Hand me my deck.”_

_Iris obeyed, stretching her still slightly too-long limbs and retrieving the deck, a gift from Blazhe on his travels; tied together with a little length of white gauze ribbon, each card hand-painted in the Eilish tradition, startlingly detailed watercolors and intricate linework, rich in western symbolism._

_“A future reading, don’t you think?” Opal said softly, shuffling the cards deftly before handing them to Iris. “For me. Four cards. Who I am now, what the future holds, the current situation, and how the future will be achieved.”_

_Iris worried her lip, half in thought, half to stave off her tears, as she sat up and flipped four cards out on the bed in quick succession. **The Star. The World. The ten of swords. Death.** _

_Opal’s smile was wan, but her eyes were warm. “What do they tell you, Iris?” Her fingers intertwined with Iris’s, squeezing gently._

_Iris cleared her throat, fighting back the sour lump that clung there. She tapped **the Star** card, a white-haired woman in gilded robes, walking at the bottom of the sea, fish swimming about her, the starry night sky shining above her. “The life you’ve been living thus far is aligned with your higher self; you’ve been serving a higher purpose, creating the life you’ve always wanted. The Star denotes an open heart, a generous spirit who cares for others and serves the greater good. ...That sounds a lot like you, Opal. The shop. Giving cures and charms to the poor, feeding the kids on the street.” Iris pinked a little. “Asra. Me.”_

_Iris’s finger passed over **the World** , a green-robed, wild-haired woman crowned in gold, surrounded by greenery, staring into the glass orb she held in her hands, the full moon swirling above her. “Your future is an end, and a beginning. It will bring a sense of closure and accomplishment, of spiritual ascension, bringing you even closer to your higher self. You will feel whole, and you will feel complete.” The unsaid hung in the air, stinging the corner of Iris’s eyes as her fingers trembled; Opal squeezed her hand again, urging her onward. _

_Iris traced **the ten of swords** , the pad of her finger arching over the flightpaths of crows, ten crows descending over a woman’s body, faceless, twisted in the shrouds that suspended her, lifting her into the sky, well above the moon. “The current situation. A painful but inevitable end. A crisis. Loss.” _

_“The cancer.” Opal said softly, leaning into Iris slightly. “And the last card?” **Death** , the phoenix, her long feathers bursting into flame, her mournful cries practically spiraling out off of the card._

_Iris was crying now. She shook her head – no words would come out. With a soft hum, Opal wrapped her arms around Iris, and the teen collapsed, burying her face in her hands, sobbing as she curled into Opal’s embrace._

_“Poor girl, darling girl, my little clove...” She murmured. “I’m so sorry we don’t have more time. You have weathered so much, so much. But you are so strong, and you won’t be alone – you have Asra. You have Aster, and Muriel. You have Blazhe. You’ll survive this.” Opal smiled now, a full, sad smile. “I love you so much, Iris. Since before you were even born.”_

_Iris pulled away a little, sniffing. “How can you be so calm?” She whispered fiercely, wiping away her tears with her sister and baby fingers. “Knowing… knowing that...”_

_Opal shushed her softly, tracing her cheek softly with her thumb. “I came to terms with it long ago, clove. I’ve been sick for longer than you know.”_

_Iris inhaled sharply, her vibrating eyes flying up to Opal’s. “What?”_

_“Before Blazhe, I had another lover, a partner. We wanted children; we tried and tried and tried. Finally, I went to see the midwife, and she found the tumor, removed it. But it made me infertile. And she told me it had spread from my womb, and that I wouldn’t likely live much longer. My lover left me, and then...for years, I was adrift. I had no purpose; I thought my life was meaningless. But you landed on my doorstep.”_

_Opal’s eyes were shimmering with tears. “You were like a fawn, all knees and elbows, easily startled, ready to bolt. You didn’t know how beautiful, how sweet you were. And you were so, so scared of your power.” She smoothed an errant tendril of hair away from Iris’s brow, her expression soft and dreamy. “You were the answer the Universe gave me, Iris; you were my higher purpose. Watching over you as you grew into the brilliant, talented, confident magician you are now – the strong, beautiful woman you are – and all I had to do was to love you, love you exactly as you are.”_

_Iris’s lips were trembling, she was shaking. “You...you did so much more than that...”_

_“No.” Opal shook her head softly. “What did I do? Teach you to grow and distill herbs, how to run the shop? Help Asra show you how to cast spells, how to control your magic? To read the cards? Those things mean nothing, Iris, without the light you came to us with. Your heart, your compassion. Your intelligence, your creativity. You are so resilient, Iris, and you have everything you need to make whatever life you choose. All you needed was someone to show you. My little clove. My star in the sky. Thank you…for letting your light shine on me for a little while.”_

_Iris flung her arms around Opal, and they both cried._

The tears streaming down Iris’s cheeks were cold as the memory receded; Asra’s scent, of cinnamon and oranges and tea, filled her nostrils. Her face was buried in his scarf, his face was buried in her hair, his interlocking fingers grasping hers hard enough to bruise. At her other side, her back, was the warmth of Julian’s arm around her shoulders, his head slung low, his mismatched eyes downcast, watching them both carefully – Iris could feel the slight tremble of his arm as he squeezed her tenderly, drawing her back down to this realm. 

The Star watched them all with a warm, compassionate gaze, a feline smile curling at the corners of her lips. “You know your higher purpose. You know it is possible. You have the wind at your backs.” Opal’s ocean eyes shifted wryly as she gestured to the trapdoor behind them. “There is nothing more for me to show you. It’s up to you now.” 

“Thank you.” Iris said softly, straightening, brushing the tears from her eyes. “For everything. For watching over Opal. For guiding us here. For...” her voice caught. 

The Star’s soft hand fell on Iris’s. “It’s my pleasure, starchild. My own purpose. I cannot do much to stop the Devil from here, but I can guide you. If you ever need me, you need but to call for me. And take care of each other, all of you.” 

Iris looked up to meet the Star’s eyes one last time, but she was gone; in her place, at Iris’s feet, was the tortoiseshell cat, blinking up at her with uncanny cobalt blue eyes before she started grooming her paws unconcernedly. 

“I think that means its time for us to go.” Asra murmured, and the three of them descended the winding steps of the squat lighthouse, its beacon shining all the brighter as the beam scattered proudly over the starry surface of the ocean. 

Through the white wood door, out the round, overgrown garden to the curved shale steps; Iris’s gaze slid over the beach sprawled out in front of them and she gasped. Tethered at the end of a long, rickety dock was a tall single-masted sloop with two snow-white Slocum sails and a long bowspirt, the hull painted a warm, ghostly gray. Iris had seen many a sailboat come in and out of the docks down at Vesuvia’s port, but she thought had never seen any boat so lovely as she, Julian, and Asra raced down the stone steps, clambering to get a better look. 

Julian, on his long legs, reached it first, easily hopping over the railing and scaling the first two rungs of the mast, agile as a cat, to check out the rigging. Iris boarded tentatively, running her hands over the ornately carved gunnel, worn smooth as if by years of hard-working hands. Asra examined the outer hull curiously before he leapt up, propelled by his magic, landing softly beside Iris on the deck, his hand on her shoulder, a soft, amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 

Julian landed with a thump beside them, a broad smile unlike anything Iris had ever seen on him before, his eyes alight. “She’ll run fast, but she’s steady, well-balanced. About 20 meters stem to stern, the mast about 12.” 

“Can you sail it?” Iris asked. 

“It’s been a few years since I’ve been aboard a vessel like this, but if memory serves, she shouldn’t be any trouble.” Julian’s hand fell to Iris’s shoulder, squeezing affectionately, but he was distracted, looking around, taking in the splendor. “You know, it’s strange, this is just like a sailboat I saw in a port in southern Castilibra. After I saw her, I swore that one day, I would save up for a sloop just like her and sail the world. On my own terms.” 

“Do you remember the name of the boat?” Asra asked, climbing the mast now; he was testing the rigging with a sure, curious hand. Of course he had been sailing before, Iris thought to herself. She wondered if she had ever been on a boat like this, in her previous life, confidently climbing at Asra’s side. 

“Err, it was...odd, an old old word, Welsh maybe? Didn’t exactly roll of the tongue.” Julian tapped his lips in thought, running his hands over the doorframe to belowdeck; it was short – even Asra might have to stoop.

“Mearcstapa?” Asra offered with a tweak of his brow, shouting down to the two of them; he glanced back at the beam of light undulating above them, the balmy seabreeze ruffling his curls, his scarf.

Julian’s eyes flew wide. “Don’t tell me that was a guess out of the blue. A magic thing?” He mumbled incredulously as Asra hopped down to the deck into graceful crouch. 

“It’s written on the side of the ship.” Asra said with a coy smile, eyes lidded impishly, and Julian pinked slightly. 

“Mearcstapa.” Iris said thoughtfully, turning the name over on her tongue, running her palm over the smooth mast. There was a soft response of energy, of magic, from the ship, as if she were alive. “She’s beautiful.” 

“That she is. And she’ll definitely get us where we need to go.” Julian agreed. “Asra – untie us from the dock while I take these lines in. Iris...” With his hand on her back, he walked her to the helm. “Every boat needs a captain. Just look commanding and watch out for the boom.” He kissed her briefly and winked before scrambling to adjust the sheets into the breeze that buffeted them. 

Iris lifted the compass out of her dress, held it in her palm, the metal soft and warm from her body’s heat. The needle sputtered a little, wobbling gracefully before it settled, pointing out to the horizon, parallel to the light beam above her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of white as Asra jumped back aboard, a long length of rope looped around his shoulder, which he secured to a cleat with a skillful knot. She turned back to him, and their eyes met; he flashed her a tired smile as he tightened the knot.

“All aboard!” Julian called joyfully, and the boat lurched, gliding forward as if propelled by magic. They were off.

*******

Just as Julian predicted, the Mearcstapa was steady and sure, but she practically flew over the water, hardly even cutting spray as they bobbed over the surf. Soon the horizon receded behind them, leaving only the startling endlessness of the sea and the dancing auroras above them, now deep purple, saffron orange, and coral red. Iris settled into the bench in front of bowsprit, watching the prow split the soft waves, lost in thought as Julian and Asra adjusted the sails above her. Once their course was set, they came down from the rigging, exploring the rest of the boat, the comfortable living quarters belowdecks, the stern, the little galley, and by the time they returned to Iris, she had dropped into sleep, her head curled in the crook of her elbow. 

When she awoke, the sky was black and glittery with stars, the surface of the ocean as smooth as glass, reflecting the starlight like a mirror; the Mearcstapa was barely moving, and hardly a wind stirred, but the Star’s beam still pulsed gently above them, like a gold ribbon edged through dark velvet. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes and shrugging off the Nopalese blanket one of her lovers had draped over her shoulders, she padded in her bare feet (someone had removed her pack and her boots, too, now nowhere to be found) to the soft warm glow on the deck several smooth steps down from the bow. 

Asra and Julian were wrapped in more blankets, laying on their backs on the worn wood; the air above them was aflame with the tiniest orbs of red-orange light, like the fairy lights Asra had strung over the rooftop garden next to the flat. Julian, brows furrowed and lips set in concentration, summoned another tiny orb of light at his fingertips, before loosing it into the sky; Asra, lounging at his side, arms flung luxuriously above his head, was smiling proudly, murmuring purred words of encouragement, of praise, in Julian’s ear, casting a soft flush across the doctor’s cheeks. 

The deck creaked slightly under Iris’s feet as her weight shifted, and both her lovers looked up. “How long did I doze?” She murmured, rubbing her eyes again as she sank down onto her knees next to Asra, the boards groaning again under her. “And why aren’t we moving?” 

“No wind.” Julian replied. “Just as well. We won’t drift as much, so we won’t have to sleep in shifts.” 

“You slept for a few hours.” Asra answered her, sitting up and fixing an errant wave of Iris’s hair that had unseated itself in her sleep. “You must have been exhausted. You wouldn’t even wake for dinner.” 

Julian had disappeared belowdecks; he quickly reappeared, a soft package of wax paper in his hand, still warm from the fire. A baked yam, stuffed with soft goat’s cheese, leeks, and bacon – Iris’s stomach growled appreciatively as she took the first bite. 

“So what now, captain?” Julian asked, a twinkle in his eye, stooping to kiss Iris on the cheek as he settled back down into the nest of blankets. 

“...I don’t know.” Iris said after she had swallowed. “Asra and I could try to propel the boat with magic, but...I don’t think that’s what the Star intended. If there’s no wind...there’s not supposed to be wind. We should wait, at least for a little while.” 

“I agree.” Asra said softly. “We’re on the right path. The light is still clear. We should rest now.” He flopped back down onto his back with a rumbling, easy sigh. “At least the view is gorgeous.” 

Iris looked back up; it was then she noticed the auroras were gone, replaced now with a low-hanging full moon, bright white as freshly fallen snow. “Do you know what mearcstapa means?” She asked after a moment, her eyes flitting down to her lovers. Julian shook his head slowly; Asra’s brow was quirked in curious question. 

“Border-walker.” She explained, craning her neck up, staring straight up into the moon. “In an old story, there was a creature who wandered the wilds outside of a village, and everyone feared it. They called it mearcstapa, the border-walker, the border-crosser. It was born from a human man and a woman of the water, a goddess, or maybe a demon, making the creature neither human nor fey. The villagers feared it so much they wanted to kill it; they drew it out of the forest by singing its name over and over. The mearcstapa thought it had finally been accepted by the villagers, but they attacked it and ripped its arm off, killing it. Its only crime was to be born, and its death didn’t end the violence, only perpetuated it. The mearcstapa’s mother descended and killed the men who slayed her child, taking one of the survivors as a lover to conceive another. Years later, that child attacked the village, too, wanting what it saw others had – family, love, acceptance, happiness. Pain begetting pain, begetting pain.” 

“The cycle of samsara.” Asra murmured. “The forever spinning wheel of fortune.” He reached out and touched Iris’s arm softly. “Who told you that story?”

Iris leaned against the gunnel, looking down at the water, her face’s shadowy reflection obscured in the pure white face of the moon. The knowledge glowed up in her. “My mother. She taught classical history at the university of Albyon. The old literature. The forgotten languages. The story is so garbled now. It’s been told so many times, translated so many times, we’ve forgotten what it means.” 

“So what does it mean, Iris?” Julian asked quietly, leaning back on his elbows now. He was looking up at the moon, too. 

“I don’t...I don’t know. I don’t remember.” Iris responded, her voice small. For a moment, they were all silent, the air still and pregnant. Then, there was a soft shuffling as Julian sat up, smiling sheepishly.

“A little music to lighten the mood?” He asked. Iris tore her eyes away from the moon’s reflection to him just as the clasps of a vielle case clicked open softly in his hands. 

“Where…?” Iris began, brows furrowed. 

Asra chuckled. “It was in the quarters. The Star must have suspected we’d have time to kill.” Julian was tuning the strings now, the sporadic notes low and throatless, before he drew the long bow over the neck. The sound, the sound, a resonant chord, achingly lonesome, swam over the ocean with nothing but their skin to press against, reverberating, it seemed, in Iris’s very bones.

“Any requests?” Julian asked softly, one corner of his mouth upturned as his mismatched eyes met Iris’s, lidded, lashes fluttering briefly, flirtatiously. 

Iris laid back on the blankets, looking up at the moon. “Something from Nevivon. Something you love, darling.”Asra laid down beside her, his cheek pressed to the pillowy space between her collarbone and the swell of her breasts, his breath warm against the bare skin there. 

Julian’s smile, a genuine, warm smile, spread across his features like soft butter, and the chords flew from his fingers with the easy, natural skill of a spider spinning her web. They were sweet, then sweetly dissonant, then sweet again, low and syrupy slow, almost a hum. Iris placed a hand on his thigh, just above his knee, as he began to sing. It was a Nivenese work song, the lyrics rhythmic and narrative, painful but joyful; he sang it in his native tongue, but somehow, Asra and Iris understood.

They listened contentedly, heavy-lidded, looking up together at the stars; the sky was overwhelmingly awash in them, this far out at sea. They pointed out constellations to each other, named the stars they didn’t know, giggled softly to each other as they made their own mythologies. Julian’s song ended, but the notes lingered in the air as he began the next, higher, quicker, gentler, arpeggiated and full of wonder. 

Julian played and played, and the three of them luxuriated in the starlight, finishing the earthy wine from Iris’s bag and another bottle Asra seemed to procure from thin air, of effervescent pink that tasted like spring, like the long-gone auroras. Iris held the bottle to Julian’s lips between songs, laid her head across his lap while he played a quiet, melancholy aubade, ran her fingers through the short little curls on the back of his neck. 

When Julian played something lively, she and Asra danced, laughing as they spun each other, swung out on each other’s arms, Iris’s skirts twirling; when he played something slow, they sank into the blankets and let themselves be lulled by the rocking of the ship. When Iris knew the words to a song, she sang, her sonorant voice lifting up over the glassy sea; when she sang, Asra snuck kisses on the corner of Julian’s lips, his cheek, wrapped his arm’s around Julian’s waist, his chin resting on a graceful, dipped shoulder. 

Iris didn’t know if it was hours or years that they relaxed together on those still, whispery waters, but finally, with a tired sigh, Julian laid aside the bow and dropped back into blankets, not even bothering to put his instrument away. “I don’t think I even know another song.” He muttered softly, as Iris snuggled into him, her head on his chest, her fingers slipping through the folds of his shirt; Asra, besides her, turned towards the two of them, his chest pressed to Iris’s back, his lips brushing, warm and slow, against Iris’s vertebrae, the mark of Death on her neck. 

Iris responded with a low, throaty chuckle, dragging her fingernails lightly over the firmness of Julian’s stomach. “However will we pass the time?” She wondered, her eyes flitting to his as she thumbed open the low stays of his shirt, the little clasps that held the cotton together, so the broad expanse of his chest was hers.

Asra, watching them through dark, cloudy eyes, let his tongue linger over Iris’s spine, licking slow, suggestive circles against the gentle hills of bone; his fingers swam down the warm, soft fabric of her dress, finding the tight cinch of her waist, then the full, luscious swell of her thigh. He gripped her softly, pulling up the hem, thumbing the concave dip of her hipbone, as Julian turned towards Iris and pressed his lips against hers, his fingers tracing the softness of her arm. 

Iris hummed quietly against Julian as his fingers snaked tenderly up her arm to her shoulder, cupping the swell as his tongue pressed against her lips, a question. She already felt the heat swirling, achingly, in her belly as she let him in, biting his tongue so softly as he tasted her, a sweet moan rising from his throat into hers. 

The grip on her pelvis grew firm, heavy; then she was on her back, Asra arched like a cat over her, his eyes dark and playful as he pushed Julian gently away. Asra’s lips were on hers, his tongue was in her mouth, her tongue was sliding against his as warm fingers slid through the tiny buttons that held her dress together; he only undid them to her belt, but it was enough for him to free her breasts, cup them, thumb her hardening nipples. 

At their side, Julian groaned softly, and his hands flew to the dip of Asra’s waist, and the magician’s eyes flashed with mischief. “Should we move this to the quarters?” He asked softly, the corner of his mouth quirked as he pulled just a little bit away, enough to make Iris crane to search for his lips, his kiss. 

Julian’s response was to hastily scramble to his feet, his shirt falling open over his hips. Asra urged Iris up into his arms, lifting her like a child, her legs wrapped around his waist, as he ducked through the doorway below decks, his hand wrapped around her crown, careful to protect her against the treacherously low transom. 

The quarters were more spacious than Iris expected; a wooden desk with a rolling top, paired with a winged-back chair; an overstuffed couch and a low Nipponese lacquered table; a Seong silk changing screen in front of a bolted-down wardrobe. Wedged below the stern-facing window was a king-sized bed, dressed in sheets so inky blue they were almost black. At their backs, on the other side of the stairs, was the small galley, but Iris didn’t have a chance to look at it fully before she was pressed into the sheets, soft and cool, Asra’s lips brushing against her before he pulled away to turn to Julian, who had perched himself on the edge of the bed, slightly uncertain. 

“Ilya.” Asra purred, eyes lidded. “Do you want to play a game?” 

Iris saw Julian’s pupils widen, drowning out the gray of his eyes. “What kind of game?” He asked, his gaze flitting to the silhouette of Iris and Asra’s intertwined bodies on the bed, his voice quivering slightly. 

Asra’s voice was wicked as he leaned over and cupped Julian’s cheeks, pulling him close without kissing him. “Do you remember when I would tie you up and you couldn’t touch until I said so?” He murmured in a low, smooth croon; Iris shuddered as Julian moaned, throwing his head back, practically melting in Asra’s hands. 

“Y...y-yes...” 

Asra’s smile was wicked now as he nipped Julian’s lower lip, then his arched neck. “Can you keep your hands to yourself while I tend to Iris first?” 

The sound that Julian made was low and throaty, both a frustrated groan and an ecstatic sigh, but he made his request: “If you tie me up...” 

Asra chuckled softly. “Did you think I wouldn’t?” 

There was a whispered flash of purple light, and Julian was sprawled out on his back at Iris’s side, his shirt flung open, and his wrists bound to the headboard with shimmering bonds of lavender-white. Julian was flushed from cheek to collarbone as Asra arced over him without touching, teasing him with the softest puffs of heavy breath over his neck, his nipples, his stomach, before turning his attention back to Iris. 

Iris wasn’t even bound, but she felt heavy in Asra’s arms as he wrapped one hand around her waist, the other snaking up her back, making her arch at his touch; he kissed her, all over her face, her hairline down to her forehead down to her temples, across her eyes and her cheeks and the corners of her nose before settling again at her lips, slipping his tongue easily inside her. 

Iris whined quietly in anticipation, rubbing her hips against his in one long, delicious motion, but he pulled back from her, the muscles of his shoulders and arms flexing in a way that made Iris ache and slick. She felt hands on her waist, carefully undoing the leather clasps of her petticoat, then the rest of her buttons – then her nakedness was pressed against Asra’s clothed sex, hard and insistent. 

“This is what you like, isn’t it, my heart?” He murmured into her ear as he ground his pelvis into hers, the leather warm against her sex; she moaned loudly as he rubbed against her swollen clit, drawing small circles against her with his hips, sending hot, frenetic pulses of pleasure through her belly, making her buck against him. “It drives you wild. I love the way it makes you wild.” 

Iris could only moan again as another pulse jolted through her and the leather dragged against her skin; she impatiently wiggled out of her dress, kicking it and the petticoat to the floor. She wrapped her legs greedily around Asra’s waist, drawing him more tightly to her as she met his motions, searching for the thing that would push her over the edge. 

Asra groaned quietly, but he let her rut against him, his violet eyes dark and lidded as he watched her, her full lips open around the little moans that rose from her throat. At their side, Julian groaned, his neck strained to the side as he watched; he arched against his restraints, and Iris could see the seat of his leggings tenting visibly, tightly, achingly, as he spread his legs instinctually.

When Iris thought she was moments from coming, her back arcing and spasming deliriously against Asra’s chest, he clung to her and lifted her upwards. His warm fingers swirled against her clit, and she moaned, pressing her forehead against his shoulder as she rocked against his hand in her lap.

But he was focused on Julian, pulling his soft leggings down just enough that his red, throbbing cock could spring free; Iris groaned at the sight of it, and then Asra was nipping at her ear, whispering hotly to her: “Will you ride Ilya for me, my heart?” His fingertips were digging into the underside of her thighs, hands shaking at the hot thought of her on top of his other lover. Iris moaned against his neck and she nodded feverishly as Julian, behind her, keened desperately, rolling his hips upward in primal anticipation as he strained against his bonds. 

Asra knelt above Julian, Iris in his arms, meeting Julian’s wild eyes as he helped lower her onto Julian’s lap. They both moaned loudly when skin met skin; Iris at the hardness, the heat of Julian’s erection, Julian at the dripping wetness of Iris’s blooming sex. The spell was cast, the searing purple heat against their tender skin; then, it was only a few gyrations of Iris’s hips before Julian’s considerable length slipped into her. 

Iris cried out loudly, arching her naked back and making eye contact with Asra, who was kneeling on his heels between Julian’s knees; he ripped open his own pants and palmed himself slowly, a dusky flush spreading across his cheeks and neck. Julian, still restrained, whimpered with bliss and let his eyes flutter open; Iris’s beautiful, curved back was to him, the muscles of her shoulders rippling, the delicate little rolls at the taper of her waist fattening and lengthening, the swells of her dimpled ass pooling and bouncing as she rocked her hips against his in a slow but steady rhythm punctuated with breathless gasps of pleasure. 

Iris’s vision swam as she clutched Julian’s thighs, digging her nails into the taut muscle as she whined and gritted her teeth. Asra had already brought her so close to orgasm that she only had to mindlessly rock herself towards it, and Julian’s cock was perfectly positioned in her to glide against that spot that sent her reeling. The thick of her hips slapped against Julian’s as she chased her bliss, and all Julian could do was hum with pleasure, let Iris use him, consume him, draw him closer and closer to his own release as he arched his back and thrust up into her. 

Asra bit his lip and watched them, his fantasy actualized; Iris riding Julian in reverse, Julian restrained and unable to touch her while she rocked herself to orgasm. Still, he smirked while he touched himself, panting a little as his voice rose above Iris’s cries: “You’re bound, Ilya, but not gagged. Don’t you want to tell Iris how good it feels?” 

Julian’s brows furrowed in concentration as he moaned loudly, the muscles of his arms jumping as he strained against the threads of silvery light that bound him to the headboard. “Fuck, Iris...” He began, his voice low and labored. “Fuck, _draga_ , you’re...you’re so beautiful, you’re so hot...I love the way you ride me… just use me, darling, come all over me, let me feel you, darling, oh, _draga moj_ …” 

His voice rose, choked, as Iris cried out softly through her bitten lips, her pace quickening; Asra reached out with his unburdened hand and swirled two fingers against her clit, fired up so hotly by the sound of Julian’s voice. After a minute or two, she came with a wild shout, her body spasming and her hips slowing against Julian’s. He grimaced as she convulsed tightly around him, and with a satisfied, silky whine, he came too, thrusting his release deep inside of her. 

Asra kicked off his leather pants and shrugged off his shirt while they reeled and returned to him; he pressed his lips against Iris’s while she panted and her vision righted itself, gently slipping his hand down her back to cup one of her cheeks, one finger dragging languidly against the cleft between. 

“Iris...” He moaned, his own erection throbbing between his muscular thighs. “Iris, my love, can I touch you here? I...” his voice broke for a moment as he quivered, as he dragged his lips down to her neck, nipping and sucking the flushed skin. “I want to make love to you while Ilya is inside of you.” 

The sound Iris made was wanton as she threw back her head, her eyes still lidded with orgasm, and she felt the heat coil again in her belly. “Y-yes, Asra...” She moaned. With a groan, Asra’s warm hand surged up to her breast, cupping it and thumbing her nipple while the other touched her sex, with Julian still inside of her, gathering her slip on his fingertips before he softly circled her anus, massaging her with his slicked ring finger. 

Iris leaned forward into Asra, still clinging to Julian’s trembling thighs, but resting her forehead against his neck and arching her back so he could better reach her, touch her. Julian, still gasping, fluttered his dawn-gray eyes open, only to find Iris spread out before him, Asra’s careful touch easing her open while Julian’s hard cock was still sheathed inside her sex, his seed dripping now, thick and warm, from her swollen lips. Asra’s eyes were dark, dilated, and lidded as they met Julian’s, his lips parted slightly, his breath panting as the pad of his finger tugged against the little ring, making Iris grunt hotly and press harder against him. 

“Asra...” Julian panted as Iris clenched around him. “Let me…I want….please...”

“I don’t know what you want, Ilya, honey.” Asra purred, now pressing against Iris with the slightest pressure; his other hand swam down the silky-soft skin of her belly to her slick clit, teasing her. “You have to tell me.” 

Julian groaned in frustration. “Untie me...please...” He whined. “I want...I want to touch...I’ve been good...” 

Asra chuckled impishly. “You have been very accommodating, Ilya.” His lips brushed against Iris’s ear as he slipped his lubricated finger to the first knuckle inside of her. “What do you think, Iris? Do you want Ilya to touch you?” 

Iris whimpered softly at the breach, but arced into Asra’s touch. “I want you both to touch me...” She murmured, her voice warm and liquid, swimming with arousal at the thought. 

Asra laughed softly, and gently removed his finger. “Can you turn around for me, then?” He whispered; he was smiling, but his voice was heavy and dark. 

With a soft cry, Iris lifted her hips off of Julian, and his cock slapped wetly, heavily, against his bare stomach. Asra kissed Iris, letting his lips linger only for a moment before guiding her to face Julian, just as the bonds dissolved. He sat up slowly, staring at Iris almost in disbelief, before his fingers fell on her waist, tracing slowly down to her hips, grasping softly, experimentally, as Iris sank back into his lap, his cock nestled in her wetness, still dripping with him. 

Then they were kissing, Julian’s long arms wrapped around her back, his graceful fingers cradling Iris’s head, wrapped in her hair, the other cupping a full cheek greedily as they pressed against each other; Iris scratched her fingernails down his still-clothed back and hummed into his mouth as he rocked his hips against hers, the warm, velvety head of his cock rubbing against her sensitive clit, teasing her so deliciously. 

Behind them, Asra was magicking off Julian’s boots and leggings, giving him full faculty of his legs so Asra could easily straddle Iris, his chest pressed against her back and his lips in her hair; when Julian’s fingers brushed against his mouth, Asra grabbed the wrist and took the middle finger, sucking hard. His other hand, fingers slick with lubricant, circled the pucker of Iris’s anus before pushing one gently through her resistance, savoring the sweet little groan it earned him. 

Julian moaned at the sound of Iris’s voice, at Asra’s lips around his finger, and he rocked his hips once more against Iris before he guided himself back into Iris’s warmth. Iris grunted, delighted at the fullness, through her bitten-back lips, and she snaked her hands under the hem of Julian’s shirt so she could claw at his back, mark him, give him what he wanted. 

Asra slowly thrusted inside of Iris, his other hand now rubbing her shoulder, smoothing down her back, urging her to relax. Julian’s hips were still, but his fingers had found Iris’s clit, touching her slowly, expertly, while she sucked his tongue into her mouth. It wasn’t long before Asra was able to slip another finger into her, to thrust easily into her. 

It was when the third finger was added that Julian moaned tremulously, his voice positively quivering when he murmured, “I...I can feel you, Asra...” He pressed his lips against Iris’s forehead and stifled back another groan as the magician thrust again, harder this time, smiling wickedly around Julian’s finger. 

Iris flung her head back against Asra’s shoulder, her mouth wide and panting softly. Between Julian’s touch, his hot cock inside of her, Asra’s patience and care with her body, she was so riled up, practically liquid in her lover’s arms. Asra released Julian’s finger with a soft pop and pressed his lips against Iris’s ear, swirling his tongue hotly against the whorl and savoring the little whine that left her lips before he whispered, “My heart, are you ready?” 

“I...I think so...” She whimpered; she was aching for him, aching to feel both of them inside her. 

“I’m in no rush.” He murmured, slowing his hand a little. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

She moaned, flushing darker. “Asra, I...I want it, I need it...please...” She begged; she reached up and carded her fingers roughly through the wild curls that haloed his beautiful face. 

The sound that rose from him, hot and needful, sent Iris surging with slickness, made Julian groan; still, with so much restraint, so much care, Asra removed his fingers and lined himself up, the hot, thick tip pressing gently against Iris as a flash of purple light flooded the room. “You’re in control, my heart.” He whispered. “Just say the word.” 

Iris nodded, and pressed her lips into Julian’s, only to cry out loudly as Asra, his cock slick and throbbing, pushed through the first pop, sending a jerk through her hips and making her clench down on Julian, who mewed, “Oh, fuck, Iris...Asra...” 

Iris gripped Asra’s hair tighter and whined loudly as he thrusted slowly into her with circular motions, going deeper and deeper with each movement until the second pop burst through her body, making her gasp desperately, stars flickering behind her eyelids. Sweet Julian, his hands on her ass, her waist, was guiding the rock of her hips, pressing her into him before rolling back onto Asra, each movement a new ecstasy, a lovely sound from her lovers’ mouths, a reverent, needful touch, a low groan of her name. 

Iris could hardly form a rational thought as time blurred, the mouths, the hands, fingers in her hair, on her waist, her hips, her breasts…. her arms were around Julian’s shoulders, clinging to him, then her fingers were back in Asra’s hair, fisted and shaking, then they were dragging down Julian’s flushed, freckled chest as he moaned loudly, his neck long and his head thrown back in ecstasy, begging to be bit, Asra’s face pressed against her shoulder, her neck, his panting breath hot on her skin, oh, and every feeling, every feeling inside of her, each powerful wave of bliss, their cocks smoothing against each other’s through the girdle of her muscles, their rhythm, their sounds, their warmth...

When Iris came, it wracked her entire body, her legs and arms shaking and her chest heaving; she cried out so loudly that the stars must have heard. Her orgasm gushed from her, hot and wet, all over Julian’s lap, so much that his thighs and stomach were soaked and dripping. “Oh, gods, oh, _sranje… draga_ , Iris, _Iris, **Iris**_...” He whimpered beautifully, overwhelmed by her voice, her warmth, her slick, as he came for a second time, clinging to her, his lips warm in an open-mouthed kiss against her forehead, his shoulders and hands shaking with delight. 

Asra wasn’t far behind either of them, but just before he came he wrapped his hand around Iris’s jaw and pushed her lips onto his, their tongues swirling hot and needfully as he grunted into her mouth and ground all the way into her with his release. 

The blessed, boneless stillness that followed was punctuated only by their slowly evening breaths, the creak of the rocking ship, the rustle of the sheets as all three of them sank into the bed. Asra guided Iris to her back and, wrapping his hands around her hips, settled between her legs, laving her with long, careful caresses of his tongue, savoring every drop of her orgasm, of Julian’s, of his own. Julian, coiled on his side, rubbed tender circles into Iris’s chest and cooed Nivenese nothings into her ear; Iris could practically feel the pounding of his heart in his fingertips. 

When Iris was clean and Asra was satisfied, he moved to Julian, licking Iris’s ambrosia from his trunk as Julian whimpered, still desperately overstimulated; then, he stretched himself lazily on Iris’s other side, slowly, softly kissing every inch of her skin available to him. “You did so good, my heart...so good...” He murmured. His amber fingers intertwined with Julian’s over Iris’s heart, squeezing warmly. “And you, Ilya...I’ll never tire of the sounds you make...” They leaned over Iris to kiss, their lips lingering, before they both dropped back into the sheets. 

Through the large transom window above them, the sea of stars winked over the embroidered void, and the heavy moon peeked shyly through the frame, casting her silvery silks about over the still water. The star’s beam still vibrated, soft and gold, in the periphery. Iris felt she could watch the stars forever, as her breathing leveled, as the warmth of her lovers, their soft, lazy kisses, their sleepy caresses, their moonlight-drenched skin, sank into her, filled her, left her feeling more at peace than she could ever remember feeling. 

For a long time, they were silent, so silent that Iris thought she was the last one to fall asleep. But then Julian’s voice came to her in a whisper. 

“Iris...I was thinking...” 

She turned to him; his eyes were closed, his lashes fluttering, his lips softly parted, almost as if he were talking to her in his sleep, as if she were part of a peaceful, idyllic dream. 

“Darling?”

His eyes fluttered open now, foggy with the beginnings of sleep. “Are we the mearcstapa? In… in the story you told?” 

There was a soft rush of breath against her neck, a little inhale. Asra was listening, too. 

“Maybe.” Iris responded quietly, gently smoothing a curl away from Julian’s crimson eye, her fingers lingering on his cheek. “Tell me more.” 

Julian paused, his brow upturned in thought. Sorrow flashed for just a moment through his gray eyes. “Today...was unlike any adventure I’ve ever had before. I’ve never seen a place so beautiful. I did magic for the first time, but only because you believed in me, because Asra believed in me. I’ll treasure this day until Death takes me back. But...” He paused, uncertain. “If...if circumstances were different, we would never have been in this realm together. We...could have never met, you and I. Asra and I. We could have never fallen in love, if there were wasn’t...” He trailed off, uncertain. 

“...If there wasn’t pain in our lives?” Iris offered softly, a quiet smile hinting on her lips. She saw what he was seeing.

Julian’s eyes were glowing now, alight with perspicacity. “I’ve helped many birth children earthside. I know you have, too, Iris. It’s beautiful. There’s so much pain, so much you think the mother will break, that you’ll break, that the whole world will break, but it’s all forgotten the moment you...” His breath caught. “The moment you hold that child. The light in the mother’s eyes as you hand them to her. The pain brings so much joy.” 

“If you let it.” Asra interjected softly, his hand trailing down Iris’s shoulder to the quiet swell of her arm, gripping her gently. 

“...Right.” Julian agreed softly. “Pain can bring joy, if you let it. If you look for the light.” 

Asra laughed once, so softly it was practically a whisper. “It’s a fool’s errand to try to rid the world of pain; pain is the price of being alive. But to use pain to bring joy...to spin pain into light…” He trailed off, pulling Iris a little closer to him, nuzzling his nose into her neck. She didn’t have to dip into him to know what he was thinking. 

“If we’re all borderwalkers...born of immense pain and immense light, so powerful and so frail...” Iris murmured, thumb tracing the sharp angle of Julian’s jaw. “...then why are we afraid of each other? If we see that we’re all the same...full of pain, and full of light...maybe…” 

“Maybe there would be a little less pain. And a little more light.” Julian finished for her, his voice soft with sleep. 

“The wound is the place where the light enters you.” Asra’s voice was slipping, too, into quiet.

“Rumi. I like it.” Iris murmured, and kissed Julian as Asra nuzzled his cheek against Iris’s neck. 

Soon, they were asleep.

*******

Iris's dreams were strange.

In the first, she was standing, naked, on a perfectly circular lake swathed in thick ice. The cold burned the soles of her feet, but she couldn’t move; she was frozen, petrified, terrified, her eyes tracing the dark, liquid paths of the toothed shadows that slunk in the depths below her. There was a thunderous crack as the surface below her shattered, splintered, and with a shriek, she was plunged into the frigid water…

She was in the anteroom to the dungeons, the garnet, obsidian, and moonstone eye glaring at her; the air tasted metallic and fetid, and it smelled of coppers, the sweaty damp of the sick. She took a step forward, her fingers outstretched to close the eye, but she realized her hands, her feet, her naked skin, was covered in splatters of blood, some dried thick like scars, some horribly wet. Her hands shook, her chest heaved, and she saw crimson in the corner of her eye. She turned, and gasped: a handprint, almost the size of her own, was seeping through the earthen wall, gruesome and glistening. Beside it, another appeared, larger, higher, then another, another, they were swarming now, the walls nearly covered in bloody handprints, some coming only to Iris’s thighs, the hands barely the size of her palm...she dropped to her knees, wailing, clutching to her ears, but at the impact, she dropped through...

Then she was standing in front of a large, ornately carved golden door, covered in runes she could hardly fathom, glowing with soft white light, so tall that she barely could reach the door handle with her arms stretched all the way above her head; her hands trembled, she was shaking, she was sobbing as she grasped the crystal knob, but it wouldn’t budge, it wouldn’t budge, it was locked, she was alone, horribly, terrifyingly alone….

Then, she was standing in a field of flowers, their tiny faces each a brilliant, fluttery orb of orange, yellow, cherry red, tiny sunbursts bright against the bottle blue sky, the lush green of foliage, the little bursts of baked yellow from the larch mottes dotted across the marshy taiga. But it was wrong, wrong, at the center of each bloom was a ferocious red eye, the black pupil squared and glaring – now it was teeth, sharp and pointed, the flowers were swelling, massive, their jaws unhinging, threatening to swallow Iris whole as the sky burnt black…

There was smoke in her lungs, smoke in her nose, she was screaming, she couldn’t see anything but gray, her eyes were filling up with ash, she was being buried, being consumed, her flesh falling away from her like birch bark, she was bone, she was bone, she was agony, this was it, this was…

A clap of thunder so close it could have been a slap across her face jolted her awake, a scream loosed in her lungs – she was alone in the bed, and heavy ropes of rain lashed the window like whips, the wind howling like wolves above her. She scrambled out of the bed, her clothes rushing to her and melting onto her skin as she stumbled up the steps to the deck, struggling to wrench open the heavy door. 

Immediately, those clothes were soaked as the rain pummeled her, the wind screeched in her ears, it was dark, so dark, except for the ominous moon, low and boiling red and furious, stretching almost as far as Iris could see on the horizon, turning the sea to fresh, bright blood. Lightning laced the sky, searing white, impossible blue, and the next clap of thunder left her deaf, her ears buzzing angrily. 

Shielding her eyes, clinging desperately to the wooden railing, she called, helplessly, futilely, for Julian, for Asra. The sails flapped cacophonously above her – she saw rigging snapping like cattails, perhaps the shadowy shapes of climbing bodies on the mast, the boom, but it was so dark. She tried to cast light, but her magic sputtered, she was disoriented, shuddering, soaked, scared. 

She staggered to the steps up to the helm, but the deck shifting dangerously below her as a wave broke over the gunnel, washing the wood in scarlet – the sloop tilted so violently that if Iris hadn’t been clutching the railing, she would have been bucked into the sea. She coughed as saltwater filled her mouth, she crouched, retched, trying to get her bearings, get to the helm, find them, find her lovers, that was all that mattered, find them, find them – 

It didn’t matter. The next wave that crashed over the Mearcstapa seemed to come from directly above, so forcefully that it lifted Iris off her feet, enveloped her in shivering crimson. She was needled with splinters from the shattering mast, her body was battered by heavy detritus; she tried to relax, to take a deep breath, remember that she didn’t need to breathe, but her lungs filled with searing cruel sea, so much she thought she would explode, it was achingly dark, she couldn’t see where to swim, above her head was wood, solid wood, and then she was struck across the eyes and everything went blissfully black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> fuxjin moon, man. 
> 
> Also, I’m very not sorry for the Beowulf references. At least, I dunno, watch the movie or something if you’re unfamiliar. Neil Gaiman’s adaptation is aight. The Seamus Heaney translation is chef’s kiss 
> 
> Finally...Opal. Fuxj, man. That one hurt to write. I had to channel a whole lot of Carrie & Lowell energy into that one. And like, call my mom in tears. 
> 
> All right I’m done see you in The Moon. 80 PAGES OF DREAM SEQUENCES AND SOUL SCARS BB


	4. The Moon, Part 1: How Careless We Are When We're Young

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Imogen Heap - Closing In**
> 
> _CW: Discussion of and allusions to drug use/addiction, discussion of rape/ambicon, MCD, graphic depictions of physical pain/body horror, sexual assault/ambicon, depictions of domestic violence_
> 
> _There is a graphic ambicon scene in this chapter. The section that contains it will begin and end with *****. If you are triggered by this content, please speak to a mental health professional or a trusted ally, or call 1-800-656-4673 (US) OR 1-800-273-8255 (US). I believe you._

Iris awoke in a cold sweat, her body exhausted, her skin burning. She was tangled in damp, scratchy blankets, the mattress thin below her aching bones, her swollen muscles. As soon as she took her first breath, her throat was on fire, shredded as if she’d swallowed thorns; she coughed so hard she was doubled over in pain, so hard that she gagged, so hard that she vomited citrus-yellow bile, spiked crimson, onto her cracked skin. 

Immediately, cool, gloved hands were on her, two fingers pressed to her carotid, the other cradling her, hand wrapped around her shoulder. “You’re awake...” Julian whispered, lowering her gently back into the cot, expertly wiping away the spittle on her elbow. Iris felt a cool wave of relief wash over her as the memories of the storm, the storm that capsized the Mearcstapa, flooded her; she clutched his half-open shirt, felt the heavy sheen of sweat that cloaked his skin, and turned to him, only to gasp. 

Both eyes were healthy, though the sclera were bloodshot, the skin underneath them as gray as his irises. He looked positively gaunt, his cheekbones and clavicles sharper than ever, and his half-open shirt hung on him like a sack, the back soaked through.

“Sshhh...you’re okay...” He hushed her, pulling the blankets up around her shoulders as she shivered violently, wracked now with freezing cold. “It’s the morphine. The dreams can be a real bitch.” 

“Better than the alternative.” Iris said, without thinking it; she was still shocked. Was this a memory? It didn’t feel like one, the ones she was used to recovering. It felt so real, so sharp and crystalline, and yet… she wanted to reach out to Julian, to touch him, to make sure he was real, but her arms were leaden, frozen as she clung to her elbows, trying to trap in any body heat she could. 

“That’s my girl.” Julian whispered, his thumb tracing the sunken slope of Iris’s cheek fondly, before standing. At the very least, Iris could get a glimpse of the room. Earthen floor, shale walls, damp and dark, lit with only one feeble, sputtering lantern; it smelled softly of roses and cedar, rosemary. A little makeshift desk shoved opposite the prisoner’s cot, piled high with heavy medical texts, scattered with careful notes and calculations. A hand-bound, blood-red leather book that Iris immediately recognized, the sharp knowledge arcing through her: the book Julian took his meticulous patient notes in. 

Iris’s stomach turned in on itself, and she wanted to sob, but her body merely sank back into the bed, shivering wretchedly. Julian’s office in the dungeons...it was her cell, where they took her after she gave her body for research, where Valdemar left her to die. Julian had never left it, even after he’d long forgotten what held him there. 

He smiled a little sheepishly as he sat back down on the cot, between the curl of Iris’s legs and her chest. “Can you sit for me?” He’d retrieved a tray from the wobbly desk, a bowl of dark, opaque broth and a mug of medicinal-smelling tea, a large dram of water. On shaky arms, Iris righted herself, fighting the wooziness that blurred her sight. 

Julian lifted the tea first to her lip with a roguish little wink. “It’s not quite kosher, but it’ll numb your throat a bit. And it helps with taste.” 

Iris grimaced: willow bark, yarrow, and licorice root, spiked with spiced rum. “A little.” 

Julian snorted. “Unfortunately, the kitchen staff wouldn’t let me walk off with a bottle of Golden Goose.” 

“Did you tell them it was for me?” Iris jabbed back easily, allowing him to lift another sip to her lips. “Rema practically shoves firewater into my arms now.” 

“If I had your chest, Rema might shove bottles of firewater in my arms, too, for science.” 

“You’re incorrigible.” Iris said, gratefully accepting the broth now, warm and savory, soothing, homey. 

“And you seem to be feeling more lively.” He murmured tenderly, a hopeful spark flitting across his features. Iris’s heart broke. 

“Don’t do that, Ilya.” She whispered. “It always gets better before –” 

“Shhhhh.” He shushed her again. “I promise, I’m not –”

“You are.” Iris countered, sharply. “You can’t lie to me. I can see.” 

His face fell, and he turned away from Iris for a moment, but he couldn’t hide the mist clinging to his eyes. Iris drew a soft, shaky breath, and wrapped a hand around his gloved wrist. “What time is it, darling?” 

Julian’s shoulders trembled. “What good will it do?” 

“Please.” 

He sighed heavily, painfully. “It’s mid-afternoon. The sun will set in a couple of hours.” 

Iris looked up at him through her eyelashes; tears were pricking at her bloodied eyes, too. “That’s all we have left. A couple of hours.” 

“ _Draga_ , we don’t know, you could...some people live for weeks, for months, old and young, weak and strong, female and male, it seems completely random...” Julian was babbling, but Iris placed a trembling finger on his lips. 

“Then I’ll have weeks and months more with you, darling. But that’s not a gamble I’m willing to take.” She ran a thumb softly over the leather that cloaked his wrists. “Will you take these off for me?” 

“You asked me to wear them.” Julian murmured. “Are you sure?” 

Iris nodded softly, and Julian set the tray back on the desk before he ripped his gloves off with a snap; then his warm hands, his impossibly long fingers, were cupping her cheeks, threading through her long, lank hair. She sighed, and leaned into his touch, placed her shaking hands over his as he kissed her brow, then her hairline, before burying his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply. 

Iris pressed her forehead into his long neck and took in his scent; he was sweating, even though it was devastatingly chilly in the dungeons, but she could still make out the warm leather, the tang of the sea, his musk. She closed her eyes, lulled by the hum of breath in his throat; his skin was cool, it felt good against her flushed skin, even though she felt like she would never be warm again. She made to wrap her arms around his, but her fingertips dragged against something strange in the web of Julian’s fingers.

Before he could even think to stop her, his left hand was between both of hers, her skilled fingers – she saw, with a twist of her stomach, the delicate moonstone ring on her sister finger – pulling his fingers apart, her eyes narrowing in concentration. A scab, tiny but jagged, just starting to heal, between his brother and sister fingers. The size of a needle’s point, the skin around it swollen and raised.

He jerked his hand away just as her bloodied eyes darted up to his. “How long?” She asked; she tried to keep her voice from trembling, but it was no use. 

“Iris...please...” 

“Answer me.” Iris commanded, her voice cold. Julian quivered, and Iris saw: the sweat on his skin, the way his hands were shaking. “You never stopped, did you?” 

His head was slung low between his slumped shoulders; he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Iris…there’s… something I need to tell you...” 

“What _else_ are you hiding from me?” Iris ached with shame as she felt her lip lift into the smallest sneer. 

Julian pressed the fingertips of his right hand into his crumpled brow, rubbing gently; Iris saw two more marks between the knuckles. “I… didn’t mean to, _draga_ … it… I…” 

“For fuck’s sake, Ilya!” Iris hissed. “Cut the sniveling bullshit and spit it out!” 

Julian flinched, and Iris wanted to cry, to take it back, to forgive him, to hold him in her arms, it was almost over, why, _why_ , but her expression was acerbic and animal, she was digging her nails into his hand, and he was taking it, so patiently, so brokenly... 

He pointed his gaze to the dusty corner, eyes growing dark and hazy. “The night we dined with Lucio and Nadi, last autumn. Lucio told us he was taking you into his household. Then he changed his mind. Do you remember?” 

Iris bit her lip, her heart skittering in terror at the memory. “What did you do, Ilya?” 

Julian’s eyes flitted to hers; he looked so, so ashamed. “I offered myself instead. Lucio accepted.” 

Iris was struck dumb, for a moment, before everything seemed to explode inside of her, rising up in her like a scream, like a thousand screams, like every one of her muscles had tensed and snapped, cables exhausted. “...What?” 

“That’s where I’ve been going at night when I’m not with you.” The words gushed from him, as if they had been swirling behind his lips, threatening to spill over, for a long, long time. “If I’m not doing research, I’m with Lucio. He would offer me his morphine. I’d always refused, but then he stopped taking his treatments. He said if I didn’t do it with him, I would hang for negligence. When that didn’t work, he...he threatened you again, and I...I’d...I’d already given up so much…then...oh, then it was easier, it made it all so much easier...” 

“Why? Why...” Her eyes ached, but no tears would come, her throat was full of razors, of blood. “...I never asked you to protect me…” 

“Because I love you, Iris.” Julian murmured; his hands were touching her waist tentatively, slowly slipping against the rough cotton of her shirt, as if uncertain if he was allowed to hold her. “I love you, Iris, I love you. I would do anything… _anything_ … to keep you safe...” 

Iris jerked away, feebly; her body ached, she was tired, so tired, but her anger boiled over as she blinked up at him with her crimsoned eyes. “And did you, Ilya?”

Julian’s eyes widened in devastation as if he had been struck; Iris wanted to sob when his lip trembled. “ _Svjetlo moga života_...there’s more...” 

“What else could there be, Ilya?” She nearly wailed, her hands pressed over her mouth to stop herself from screaming. She was doubled over; she wanted to vomit. 

Julian’s voice cracked. Iris could hear he was crying. “Lucy offered Asra a deal, too. You or him. Or he leave the palace. Asra chose to leave.” 

Iris froze. “You knew?” 

“What?” 

Iris’s eyes were fiery as her head shot up. The air in the little dungeon cell burned, acidic and angry. “You let me believe all this time...that Asra left me...and you _knew_?” 

“... _You_ knew?” Julian’s eyes widened in shock. “How –”

Chaos, cacophony. Everything breakable in that tiny cell – the dram of water, the ceramic crock of broth, the lantern, the bottle of rum on Julian’s desk, the samples and specimen jars carefully labeled on the single, ramshackle shelf – shattered to dust, plunging them into darkness. 

“Get out, Ilya.” Iris whispered softly; she was so, so tired, her body so leaden. She rolled over onto her side, away from him. 

Silence stretched out between them, horrible and heavy; it was broken only by the hacking fit that wracked Iris. Julian reached out to smooth a long strand of blonde hair away from her face, but she jerked away. She was glad it dark, so he couldn’t see the fat tears rolling down her cheeks. 

“ _Draga moj_...please...” 

“Go.” 

Iris thought, for a moment, that he would refuse, but with an abject sigh, he stood and shuffled the half stride to the cell door. The room flooded with dim lamplight and the putrid miasma of the theater, but the lock quickly clicked shut behind him. 

Was this how it happened? Iris wondered feebly. It felt wrong, all wrong, it couldn’t be this, and yet… For the first time, Iris’s body and mind wanted the same thing – to cry, and to sleep. She sobbed, wailed, mourning everything, everything: the smell of the first spring blooms, delicate and sweet as they sprung up through the snow, the riotous colors that would now be streaking through the sunset, the angelic softness of Julian’s parted lips as he slept at her side, cloud-white curls, soaked with summer rain, plastered to golden skin, the smooth, warm burst of her magic thrumming through her veins, now hardly more than a choked whimper. 

She cried, she cried, until her body had nothing left. Then she slipped into the deepest sleep – the pillow under her head the softest, most welcoming breast, the blanket a set of strong arms, warming her finally. 

… 

Her eyes flew open as she gasped, breath rushing into her cold and hard and brutal, her back contorting, arching so wildly she rolled off of her neck onto the crown of her head. Her eyes were sightless, no, already her vision was choking her, searing brightness and blinding color and riotous shape. She was desperate to take it all in and desperate to shut it all out, to recede back into the comforting envelope of nothing she had emerged from. Her fingernails clawed against lacquered wood, heavy, slick, loud, clattering, spilling, she was knocking over spent candlesticks and serving towers, overturned platters of food and goblets of wine splattered underneath her bare back, her shaking legs. 

But she felt none of this – she was aflame with pain, the agony radiating from her like a star; she thought she would be consumed, burn up and blink out like tinder, collapse into vacuum. Each breath was desperate and knifing, each movement excruciating and impossible, so deafening it blocked out all thought, all words, no. She _had_ no words, just the unhinging of her jaw as she threw her head back and summoned, from the void and into the void, a mind-rending scream. 

It echoed and echoed through her ears, her chest, pumped her blood like a heartbeat, rolled through her like an unending orgasm, until she thought her lungs would collapse, until her insides would ribbon out of her mouth like the tails of a child’s kite – she had no air left, and she still had scream. She would have screamed until the end of the world; her screams could have _ended_ the world, shook the cracked earth apart, summoned rain of ash and brimstone, split the sky like silk, if a pair of warm, trembling fingertips hadn’t so tentatively traced her cheek. 

She jolted, and for a moment, the pain subsided as she turned her delirious eyes towards the touch. Shock white, gleaming amber, penetrating amethyst, shimmering and wet. His finery was blinding, gold and yellow and green swirling ecstatically, but not as blinding as his beauty: the achingly perfect angle of his jawline, the Doric column of his neck, the feather-soft eyelashes and the thoughtful brow, the full, quivering lips. But it was the eyes, the eyes, vibratingly violet, wide and disbelieving, seeing her, staring at her, that made her heart jump, made her core ache unknowingly. 

He jerked his hand away at the movement, oh, his hands were _trembling_ , and his breath spun back into him with a shaky inhale that sounded horribly like hope. Then pain was back, whiting out her vision, coiling cruelly in every fiber of her. She wildly grabbed his wrist, nails digging into the taut honey skin, and the pain ebbed away, the world softened by his human warmth. 

His eyes met hers, and she watched, bewildered, as his exquisitely-formed face crumpled, his gorgeous glittering eyes welling with fat tears that swam quickly, tadpoles, down his cheeks. The sound he made was wretched, guttural and gasping, as his eyes darted wildly over her now, the slopes and the valleys of her body, the moles on her stomach, the softness that cloaked her, the newborn slick. Something arced through her, instinctual, urgent, sweet, and she moved; the gilded platters and fine china clattered, crashed under her as she reached for him, her fingers cupping his cheeks, gently thumbing away his tears as she pressed her forehead to his. 

His hands floated to her cheeks, mirroring her, his touch delicate; when his fingertips roved back into her hair, close-cropped and curling softly, something warm inside her spread, and she let her eyes close, curiously leaning into his touch. He spoke then, his voice low, and full of awe, and shattered. 

“...Muriel...her hair is so soft...like a baby’s...” 

A little halo of light shined behind her eyelids, and her eyes fluttered open; under his changshan, the ruined chinoiserie clasps ripped open, a sigil sparkled and sang just over his heart. She placed her hand over it, eyes wide, and the startling heartbeat reverberated through her as her own. 

Another voice, hushed, low and gravelly. “Asra, we have to go. She’s not safe here.” A man appeared, tall and sturdy and dark as a mountain, dressed in chainmail and leather, his black hair long, dirty, tangled. “They’ll wake any moment now.”

“I know...” He whispered brokenly. “I can hardly…she’s real, Muriel, she’s here, it’s really her...” He was crying again, and an ache surged through her. 

The mountain opened his mouth, but a thunderous blow split the stillness, metal pounding on hard wood, sending the tableware dancing in fear. She startled like a deer, with her whole body, looking wildly down the long table for the sound; the chairs that weren’t empty were occupied with the deeply sleeping – the sight of one man, slumped back, pale neck long, auburn waves askew, sent her heart fluttering, her belly liquid. Another sound, a howl of frustration, riveted her eyes to the head of the table. 

A shell of a once-gloriously fit man, now wan and spent, angrily blinked his bloody eyes at one of his hands, the skin waxen and feeble; his other, alien and gilded, was sunk into the splintered tabletop. Then his crimsoned eyes darted up to hers, confused at first, then animal in his rage. Something overtook her, freezing her marrow, every muscle tensed and afraid, ready to bolt. 

Then she was in gold and green arms, lifted away from the table easily, as the beautiful one, the one with the heartbeat the same as hers, cradled her, her arms looped around his neck. Where he had once been warm, he was now icy, fearsome, his eyes snowing over, lilac, with power, even as he held her with the tender reverence of a newborn. A magician.

“Is that – the fool?! Iris?!” The red-eyed man’s voice was practically a nasal shriek as he lunged forward from the head of the table, pale lips contorted into a toothed snarl. “I swear to the fucking stars, Asra, if you fucked this up for me –” But he never finished his threat. The mountain crossed the room in three powerful strides and clocked him, sending him sprawling back into sleep. 

“Thank you, Muriel.” The beautiful magician murmured, archly, as the mountain turned back to them, looking oddly gratified; then the magician stumbled forward, a grimace twisting his face. 

She touched his brow, her lips parted with worry, as the mountain glowered. “You’re exhausted, Asra. Let me…”

Huge hands, warm and calloused, on her back, under her knees; he was so strong that he could hold her with one arm, curled against his pauldroned elbow. But as soon as her fingertips slid from the magician’s face, she alighted, pain searing. She whimpered pitifully, and clawed mindlessly at the mountain’s arm, reaching for her heartbeat. 

The magician’s eyes widened with realization, and he pressed his palm to hers, gently; she gasped as the pain subsided, her mouth wide and desperate as their gazes met. 

“Muri… I think it has to be me…” 

The mountain’s response was to scoop the magician into his other arm. The magician intertwined his fingers with hers, smiling resplendently, his eyes aglow with happiness as he looked at her, his cheek pressed gratefully against the mountain’s richly scented skin. “We’re taking you somewhere safe, Iris. Don’t be afraid, my heart.” 

And the mountain whisked them into the night. 

…

They both called her Iris, though the mountain hardly addressed her, slinking into the corners of the cool, dark hut when he was around. The magician called him Muriel. The magician was called Asra. She wanted to turn that name, Asra, Asra, around on her tongue, to taste what seemed so familiar and delicious, but she had no voice. 

They figured it out quickly; when Muriel first laid her down in the too-soft bed, covered in furs and knitted blankets, and her hand slipped out of Asra’s, the pain knifed through her, like glass needling her veins. She couldn’t stop the scream that rose from her mouth, rattled her bones; she heard it, it should have risen the dead, scattered the stars in the sky like fruit flies, but Muriel stared, blank and horrified, at her gaping mouth, her arched back, her flailing. 

“Asra...I think she’s trying to scream...” 

Warmth, heat, the pain ebbing away as fingers traced her shoulder, the touch comforting and real. The bed shifted as Asra sat next to her, his brow upturned with worry, dreamy eyes swimming. “The book said the throning process would be more painful than childbirth.” He murmured. “It didn’t mention anything about her voice.” 

“If her spirit is being sewn into the body...” Muriel said quietly. “It could be one of the last things she receives. The voice is powerful magic.” 

“Her voice was the most powerful magic.” Asra whispered, and Iris curled towards him, drawing her head into his lap, clinging to him like a child. 

…

Muriel didn’t stay. 

“One of us has to keep an eye on the palace.” He muttered. “Make sure he doesn’t burn the city down looking for her. For us.” 

Asra raised an arched brow, his thumb tracing Iris’s jawline; she was laying with her head on his chest, entranced by their matching heartbeats, her brow furrowed. “Since when have you cared if Vesuvia burns?” 

Muriel grunted noncommittally in reply, his hand on the door. 

“Wait.” Asra called, sitting up a little, startling her, eyes wide and wild. He cooed very softly to her before turning back to Muriel. “Find Julian; ask for laudanum. Tell him it’s for me.”

Muriel’s heavy brow knitted, his eyes narrowed. “Will that work?” 

Asra’s eyes were mysterious. “Thank you, Muriel.” He settled back down into the bed, gently stroking her hair.

The cedar door slammed as Muriel left. 

…

The magician Asra took care of her. The magician Asra hardly left her side. 

She didn’t know what he did while she slept, and she slept often. But when she fall asleep, she was in his arms, and when she awoke, she was in his arms, their limbs tangled in the little wide bed. He smelled like oranges and tea and woodsmoke and rain. He fed her simple foods, soup with lentils and vegetables, mashed potatoes, mild curries with rice. His voice was low and sweet and sounded like the sea when he whispered to her. He made her feel calm.

He whispered little things, at first. Her name was Iris. She was 22 years old. She was a magician, like him. Her favorite color was blue. He showed her little spells – tiny orbs of orange light, purple myrtle flowers growing from the whorls of his fingertips, pictures drawn in light that she could put her fingers through, shimmering and warm. Then he told her more things. They lived in Vesuvia, both the capital city and the realm. She was his apprentice. They kept a shop together, lived together. It made the softest sense to her, creeping in the way moss grows. He made sense. Being in his arms was like lying in a slant of sunshine. 

He had to leave sometimes, of course. To relieve himself, to cook for them, to get water from the well in the yard. He would smooth down her hair, apologize over and over, and count down slowly, before he darted away, away from her despairing, clawing hands. The minutes would stretch by in mindless, tortured agony, until he returned, slipping his hand into hers softly or brushing a lock of hair away from her face, shushing her, whispering “My heart, my heart,” over and over again. 

Once, at the beginning, she tried to crawl out of the bed after him, only for her legs to crumble underneath her, bruisingly useless. This was when he kissed her for the first time, scooping her up into his arms before pressing his lips into her hair, the instinct warm and sweet. Iris furrowed her brows with worry when he pulled away in shock, eyes wide, face flushed. He was far away from her for the rest of the night, even as she laid in his arms. 

...

On the second day, he lead her outside by both of her hands, around to the back of the hut, where a massive, worn wood washbasin was sunk halfway into the packed dirt. He filled it with water from the well, the bucket in one hand, Iris’s hand in his other, back and forth and back and forth and back and forth – then he warmed the water with his magic, steam burrowing into the chilly winter air. He slowly lowered her into the bath; it smelled of oranges and cinnamon, inviting and familiar. 

He knelt outside of the washbasin, a cloth wound through his fingers, but she grabbed his wrists, pulling gently, insistently. He hesitated, lips parted and eyes bright for only a moment before he stripped and sank into the heat across from her, their knees and ankles pressed against each others. 

He bathed her, rubbing the cloth softly over her shoulders and back, her belly, her breasts, her legs, circular motions, the bubbles from the soap, the oils, catching the light like jewels against her fresh skin. His brow furrowed almost painfully as he cleaned her between her legs, the pressure soft and wistful. 

When he was done, she placed her fingers on his and wound them curiously through the cloth, gently extricating it from his hand. She mimicked him, rubbing it softly over his chest, his shoulders, his arms, his stomach, in little circular motions, her brows knit in concentration. He was silent, his eyes closed, his expression blank and pensive as he leaned a little into her touch. It felt comforting; it felt intimate.

Then she reached between his legs – with a gasp, his eyes flying wide, he grabbed her wrist suddenly, making her startle, her gaze snapping to his, questioning, hurt. Something happened, something that rushed the breath out of her lungs; she saw inside him, images flitting across her eyes as plain as if they were happening in front of her. His body arched over hers, the backs of her legs pressed and pooling against his bare, glistening chest, his hands on her wrists, grip bruising but welcome as he rocked her with his hips. His mouth was wide and loud and hot, her mouth was wide and loud and hot, his eyes were dark and liquid, endless, endless – 

“Iris!” His voice brought her back; his trembling fingers on her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” He crumpled, his head sinking down between his bowed shoulders as he shook with tears, and the water grew cold, prickling the skin of her fingertips, her toes. 

… 

Muriel returned that afternoon, briefly. 

“No one can find Julian.” He whispered to Asra, but she could hear. “He hasn’t been seen since the ritual.” 

Just as quickly, he left. 

… 

Asra was dressing her; a starchy white linen shirt, a pair of slinky, silky pants that tapered at the ankle, low heeled boots of worn leather. They felt as if they had been waiting for her, and they smelled warm, like him. 

“We have to go into the city.” He murmured to her as he fastened a thick blue velvet cloak, like the night sea, around her throat. “You’ll be safe with me. I won’t let go.” He sounded both reassuring and terrified. She furrowed her brow, but squeezed his hand. She trusted him; she knew nothing else. 

Outside it was pitch black, and the frost crunched under their feet. He lead her several hundred paces up a hill to a thick cedar, the trunk grizzled and twisted, his thumb worrying her knuckles the whole time. At the base of the tree, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and leaned back; the trunk was not there, there was no air, it was freezing, horrible, and she gasped, panicked. Then they were stepping backwards, into an alley that smelled of piss and stagnant water; he caught her, his body slumping only a little against her weight. 

“Good, Iris. Easy as breathing.” He whispered, panting, into her ear, their intertwined fingers pressing hard against each others, their heartbeat pounding in their palms. 

The streets were as black as the forest, but Asra knew the way without light; he lifted her over the missing cobblestone, placed his hand over the crown of her head as they ducked under a low-hanging pipe. They came upon steep steps, scaling them quickly; his fingers flew deftly over a keypad with symbols that almost seemed to shiver the longer Iris looked at them. The lock clicked, and Asra shouldered the door open, grunting softly. 

More stairs, cold, dark, still; they creaked under their careful footsteps. Up and up and up they went, until they landed on a long, open room, smelling stale and sad. Books and bottles, rum and wine, littered the long unfinished table; the galley kitchen was filmed with dust and rubbish, and the bed was dressed only with pristinely white sheets, ripped back and disheveled.

“Fuck.” Asra whispered venomously. “Where did you slip off to, Ilya?” He led Iris to the desk in the corner, framed by two half-moon windows, and he palmed frantically through the contents, looking for something, something, but her head was on a swivel, her eyes wide, her brows arched. She was tense and electric. There was something there for her – she heard it. It whispered to her. 

Her gaze fell to the bed, a trapped ghost, the sheets crying onto the floor. It happened again, something appearing so clearly in her eyes that she could have reached out and touched it. But it wasn’t Asra’s. It was hers. 

She was lying back in that bed, nude, arms stretched over her head as she slept. A soft tap, a cup of coffee and swirl of braided black sesame bread placed on the wide windowsill that served as a bedside table, then the bed sank with weight. Her eyelids fluttered, leaden with half-dreams; her vision was flooded with gray eyes, soft and sensitive, a long, graceful neck and broad, firm shoulders peeking out of a flowing shirt, far too large. Auburn waves, hastily finger-combed, still not quite tame. A small smile, the corners of his expressive lips just turning. The slumped man from the table. 

“Where did you slip off to?” She whispered; she was astonished by the sound of her own voice, throaty and sonorant and sweet.

His fingers wound into hers, and he leaned down, kissing her warmly on the lips. “I ran out and got breakfast. Aster’s. She says good morning.” 

Iris groaned softly. “Do I have to get out of bed?” She purred, her palms sliding down his sides. 

He grinned, even as a flush crept across his lightly freckled cheeks. “I suppose five more minutes won’t make us late for the palace.” 

She smirked wickedly. “If you last that long.” 

“You wound my pride, darling.” He didn’t look wounded or particularly prideful, his eyes dark and smoky as he kissed her again, this time on her jaw, his touch feather-soft and slow.

“Then prove me wrong.” She dared him, her voice a whisper. 

He smiled, and kissed her again; down her neck, under her collarbone, the scented space between her breasts, lower and lower and lower until she was moaning, “Ilya, _Ilya_...” 

She gasped. More, more pieces flooded her: the two of them sitting side by side in a vaulted library, his arm around her as they both read silently – arms intertwined, stumbling through the city, singing loudly, drunkenly, laughing riotously – him hovering in her periphery, gaze soft and proud, as she consulted with a wan patient in a crowded clinic – him and her playing cards and drinking with an ethereally beautiful woman with garnet eyes and hair like wine who touched her hand and winked, making both her and him blush. Nadia. Her name was Nadia, the knowledge surging through her, fond, sad, aching. 

Her hand trembled in Asra’s, and a fine needlepoint of pain bloomed between her eyes, but she couldn’t stop it, any of it, swollen river swallowing the dam. The three of them, Nadia at the piano, Julian playing a vielle, her strumming a kalakua and singing – her and him dancing wildly, in a tavern somewhere, his hands on her waist, her hips, sliding up her back, twirling her as she laughed, fingers threaded under his shirt, grasping needfully at the firm skin of his shoulders, his neck – more dancing, but slower, they were dressed beautifully, in some sumptuous ballroom, his touch tentative, his eyes warm and a little forlorn behind his mask before he spun her out on her arm, only for another warm, gentle hand to catch her, to pull her into a breathtaking kiss: Asra, the magician. 

The bloom surged, spreading to her temples, back through her meridian, as if someone had sliced through her crown with a white-hot knife, and she whimpered loudly, though no one could hear her – she was leaning against the counter of a shop overflowing with totems and herbs, a rainbow riot of colors; she was speaking to a customer when her eyes darted to the backroom, where the curtain was parted, his large, dreamy eyes lost in her – they were walking side by side in a dappled forest, smelling richly of loam and sunlight, their arms laden with flowers and mushrooms and lichen, their whispers and giggles melting into the birdsong and chirping insects, wind rustling through the eaves above them – they were making love under starlight, golden grasses swaying around them as she swayed over him, his eyes awash as he smoothed her long hair back behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek as he sighed blissfully – they were lying together in a bed dressed with purple sheets, the same color as Asra’s eyes, lazing the afternoon away in each other’s arms, the sun illuminating his fluffy hair like a halo –

A palace, rising imperiously into the sky, like an outstretched hand shrouded in stars – two identical women braiding her hair, all of them giggling – a squat, wizened woman with sharp eyes, swatting Iris’s ass playfully with a wooden spoon while she chopped vegetables – a gap-toothed young woman with freckled skin like burnt sugar, joyfully showing off her engagement ring – a starry-eyed woman with mousy hair and rimless glasses, wrapped in blankets on a bed, stroking a fat cat while reading a book – a blonde woman and a red-haired man, their backs to her, staring out at a slate-gray sea while the wind rustled through the long grass – 

Schematics spread over a long, mahogany table, thirteen chambers, black towers inked ominously against the ash-gray paper a heavy key in her palm, a garnet and obsidian eye the crimsoned, bloody eyes of patients at the clinic, to whom she could only give tea while they waited for the guard with their horrible beaked masks her jolting awake at night, crying out Asra’s name, Julian’s warm arms encircling her claws at her throat, ripping her skin, breath squeezed from her a gun on the table, glinting weakly in the firelight the dark circles under Julian’s eyes the light gone Nadia drunk and slumped in her throne the light gone the ache of Asra’s absence the light gone the angry man with the red eyes, his naked body reared up over hers the red in her own eyes the blood in her throat the fever the fire the chill the warm the light gone, the light gone – 

Iris screamed, her eyes flying wide, and she knew she was heard: lights flashed in windows, the few stumbling passerby whipped their heads in her direction. She crouched, her palms clutched against her temples, her fingers rigid in her hair, her face inches from the water in the canal, looking at her fractal reflection. She was shattered, sewn together with jagged, childlike stitches, and with each memory she gained, a shard pressed back into the mirror, the blood trailing down her wrist like ribbons, it reflected more and more of the light, the light that blinded her, that seared her, that cooked her alive from the inside – 

“ _ **Iris!**_ ” Asra’s voice was electricity, stabbing her vision with streaks of pain, and there was blinding light as she held out her hand towards the sound. The water bowed and rippled below her as Asra’s feet lifted from the wooden planks, his back slamming loudly against the worn brick. 

“Don’t come any closer.” Iris warned, her voice unearthly calm, even as her whole body shook with agony. Asra sputtered, the air ripped from his lungs, as he slumped to his knees. 

“Your...your voice...” He stammered, mouth wide. He lurched forward, crawling towards her, lips warped in pained grimace.

She turned her face to him, her eyes blinding white. “What did you do, Asra?” She whispered. The air shifted around them, acidic, metallic. “I saw. Ilya. You and I. The plague. My...” She faltered.

“Calm yourself, Iris. Control yourself.” He murmured, his voice soft and low and sweet, as it had been when he held her, voiceless, memory-less, helpless. He outstretched one shaking hand to her. “Take my hand, please, my heart. Please. We’ll get through this together.” 

Iris reared away, and her magic surged, violent and frantic and expanding, a storm, but Asra was quicker – he snapped his fingers, and there was another flash of blinding light – 

…

*****Iris knelt on smooth, cool tile; she could feel the welcome chill through the slinky white fabric that cloaked her knees. A bead of sweat dripped down her neck, wrapped in a thin headscarf. She took a deep breath. She was waiting. 

There. The piano, smooth, rhythmic, ominous chords. The vielle, slow and steady but not quite right, like the quivering breaths of the panicking. The soft beat of the ankedje, insistent and accusatory. The plucked violone like a skittering heartbeat.

She rose in one fluid motion, straightening her back, arching her arms at her sides, raising her eyes to the captive audience. They were in one of Nadia’s dining rooms, and seated around the table were dignitaries from all over the world, chieftains from the southern tribes, Kush oil lords, a pierced queen priestess from the new world, the resplendent twin sons of the Seong emperor, several of the Katayun consorts. At the head of the table was Lucio, thin lips set in a wicked, wide smirk, his crimson eyes glittering hungrily as he watched her. 

It was summer, the heat oppressive. The fabric that swathed Iris was thin, hugging her hips, her waist, and the silken tassels at her hem and shoulders swayed as she took a step forward on her bare feet. She didn’t look back, but she felt their eyes on her. Julian, at the vielle, brow set, angry but wary. Nadia, at the piano, exhausted and despondent, the wine in her glass rippling dangerously with each vibrating chord. Music was the only thing that moved her now. 

Iris hinged at her waist, rolling her shoulders liquidly, one hand floating up over her head, fingers grazing the headscarf, teasing, and the other hand palmed her waist in a gesture of sensuality. She took a deep breath, the sweltering air filling her lungs; she could turn back, she realized. She could stop. Julian’s warning from the night before, his lips in her hair as they laid together in their bed, her head on his shoulder, echoed in her ears: “If you do this again, darling, he’ll never relent.” But her reply was still the same. 

She came in on cue, and her voice, high, stretched, breathy, rose above the diners as she took another step forward, her hand outstretched. Her magic poured from her fingers like white smoke, filling the stage in front of her; from it, two spectral figures emerged, male and female, columning up from the ether, stretching their limbs languidly, silkily. 

The dancers looked at each other over their shoulders, the tension between them palpable. The woman turned her head away in a gentle gesture of refusal, but the man’s brow furrowed, annoyed. He reached for her wrist, which she dramatically jerked away. He tried again, and again, and each time she jerked her hand away, until she turned her head towards him, expression steely, inculpatory. 

The man ignored her and pulled her roughly into his arms, and she placed her hands on his chest, pushing away, arcing her neck and rolling her chest back, her panicked eyes towards the audience, but he held her in place, smirking. She softened, looking at him, her hands running playfully up his chest, teasing but shaking, and he rolled his head back, tension releasing. She pulled herself out of his grasp, and he desperately grabbed for her, but she danced away, holding his fervent gaze. 

This was their game of cat-and-mouse, the woman refusing, teasing him, refusing, teasing, the man exerting his power, relenting it to her, exerting, relenting, until their dance was frantic, swinging each other, spinning, dipping, the woman’s eyes terrified, the man’s eyes desperate, as he lifted her up, her mouth wide and wild with panic, and gripped her into him, his hands bruising her hips, his knee sliding between hers, pressing her against an imagined wall. She struggled, trying to spin away, but he held her in place, his lips on her neck, biting, tugging, his hands sliding up her hips to her breasts. 

She fought; she banged her fists against his chest, screamed, knocked her knee between his legs, but she couldn’t fight him off of her. He grew angry, his brow rippling, his lips curling into a familiar snarl, as one of his hands turned horribly metal, glinting in the low evening light. It wrapped around her throat, making her gasp; she clawed at his hand feebly, but he pressed harder, drawing out a wet gurgle.

She was crying, she had no voice, the sounds she was making were desperate, wretched; finally, he let go of her. She dropped to her knees, sputtering, gasping, tears streaming down her cheeks as spittle leaked from the corners of her mouth.

It was now that Iris grabbed her headscarf, ripping it away, letting it flutter poetically to the floor. On her neck was a rorschach of bruises, a dark thumbprint at the dip of her clavicle, heavy and bloody like ripe cherries, purpling fingers winding up the spine, deep cuts, tender and red, bloody and dewy even now, under her ear. Iris’s hands, tracing across her bare clavicle, spidering over her shoulder, framed the bruise so all could see. 

The audience erupted, tittering into their hands, into each others ears, some flashing their gazes angrily back to Lucio, who sat upright, his expression stony and inscrutable as he swirled the wine in his glass. The figure of the male dancer faded back into the void, and the woman crawled forward, gasping, shivering, retching. 

“ _So, what do we do now?_ ” Iris sang over and over, stepping forward with each phrase, until she was side by side with the apparition, at the edge of the stage, less than a meter away from Lucio’s guests. The music faded abruptly, with a skilled flourish from Julian’s vielle, and Iris took a deep curtsy while the form beside her dissipated into the mist with broken, watery eyes. 

The audience applauded, some tentatively, brows furrowed, others fervently, standing, lips curled with anger, eyes soft with compassion, as Iris reared back up, her bruise horribly visible against her white dress, her hair piled up on her head. She smiled, wildly, and met Lucio’s eyes; his sneer was so angry, so ferocious, it could crack glass. 

This battle, she had won. 

…

A few days later, a blood-red package was waiting for Iris on her desk in their rooms, without a salutation. She opened it, her hands trembling; it was a contraption of blush lace and black edging, a bralette, a slip, breasts barely covered. 

“Wear this tonight.” The note inside said in thick, scribbled handwriting. “Wait for Bludmila. He will drag you to me if you refuse.” 

She cried, gasping, into her pillow. The bruises hadn’t even fully healed.

…

Iris stood in the anteroom of Lucio’s bedchamber, the robe with the cherry blossoms wrapped around her shoulders like armor, her hands wrapped protectively around her waist. She took a deep breath, seven counts in, seven counts out. For once, she was glad Julian hadn’t come back that night; he surely would have wondered where she was going this late, dressed as she was. When her breathing finally settled, she knocked, twice, hard, loud, on the heavy mahogany door. 

She was shocked that he himself answered; dressed in a red satin robe, impossibly short, embroidered in gold, he flung the door open, his brows furrowed petulantly. “You’re late.” He said with a scowl. His hair was wet and dark, slicked back; he had just bathed. His gauntlet had been removed, and he wasn’t wearing make-up; without the slashes of kohl, the cakey smoothing powder, the rouge, he looked almost attractive.

“I had to dress.” She hissed softly, stepping quickly over the threshold; he slammed the door closed behind her. “This isn’t exactly the easiest thing to strap oneself into.” She gestured down to herself, allowing him, against her better judgment, to imagine the lingerie underneath.

One of his nostrils lifted, almost imperceptibly, but he said nothing, crossing the room on easy strides to the small bar. “What’s your poison?” He asked softly, golden fingers lingering over the rim of one of the crystal glasses. 

Iris started; she hadn’t expected such a question. “What do you have?” 

“What do you want? I can have anything brought up.” He turned back to her, and Iris took a deep breath; his expression was confusing, half accommodating, half domineering. 

She sat heavily in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. “Nipponese firewater?” 

He snorted. “Blonde or redheaded?” 

“Blonde.” 

A bottle uncorked loudly, dramatically, then the whisper of liquid pouring; he handed her a crystal glass with two fingers of swimming sunlight, smelling sweetly of hay and honey. 

She took a tentative sniff, then a sip. “Why did you call me here, Lucy?” 

He laughed before taking a long drink of his own firewater, sinking liquidly into the chair across from hers. “To offer you a deal.” 

“A deal?” Iris blinked softly, the heat of the firewater spreading through her veins. 

“You made it very clear you’re unhappy with your circumstances with that performance you gave at dinner a few nights ago. I’m also unhappy with our current situation.” He raised a dark eyebrow, his crimsoned eyes burrowing into her. “Perhaps we can find a way to satisfy each other.” 

“You’re disgusting.” Iris murmured, taking another sip, never letting their gaze break. 

“I’m trying to help you, Iris.” He simpered, the corners of his mouth lifting. “You have many assets I’d be willing to trade for.” 

Iris snorted now. “What could you possibly give me, Lucy? The end to the plague?” 

His eyes flashed wickedly. “I could give you Asra’s freedom.” 

Iris couldn’t stop the soft gasp that escaped her lips; she stared at him, wide-eyed, slack-jawed. She said nothing. 

“Or...are you not interested in that, now that you’re bedding Jules?” 

“Is he not free?” Iris whispered, panicked, setting her glass down with a solid clink. “What did you do, Lucy?” 

Lucio’s eyes glinted horribly; he shifted, one long, pale leg crossing over the other. His feet were massive, like his horrible hands, Iris thought, her stomach churning. He twirled the crystal in his hands, the liquor spinning, gold and thick. “He’s free to be anywhere but here, but is that real freedom? When what he truly wants is here? And refuses to leave?” His eyes flitted, dagger-sharp, to Iris. “You are his exile, pretty fool.” 

Iris blinked. “I don’t understand.” 

Lucio tsked and took another sip. “I offered him a deal, just like I’m offering you. He could be a good boy, or he could leave. You were the incentive. He chose to leave, like a coward.” 

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Iris whispered poisonously. “You drove him out of court? He was actually doing research that could help the public, Lucy. No one has taken up his healer training program. No one can even touch the protective sigils he designed for the city.” 

“He had become a nuisance.” Lucio replied, his tone bored. “Just like you’ve become, little fool.”

“What? He embarrassed you?” Iris stood now, her robe billowing. “He showed the world what a monster you are? I won’t deal with the Devil, Lucy. Thank you kindly for the drink.” She strode to the door, but Lucio stood, his eyes dark and animal. 

“What about Jules? His safety?” 

Iris’s hand hovered over the doorknob; she turned back to him, her eyes placid. “Surely you wouldn’t be so stupid to off your personal physician? The one who’s keeping you alive?” 

“That’s not what I meant.” Lucio said with a wide smirk, striding across the room towards her. “Jules is much, much more pliable than you, pretty fool. Do you think that if I threatened you, he wouldn’t roll over and wag his tail in a heartbeat to protect you?” 

Iris inhaled sharply. “How dare you.” 

“You know I’m right, Iris. He’s wild for you; only three months in your bed, and he wants to marry you. I don’t blame him.” Iris felt this like a knife through her gut, and Lucio sniggered. “He’s eager to please and easy to manipulate. But you could protect him. You could protect him, and you could bring Asra home. Have both of them at your side. Both of them in your bed.” 

“No.” Iris said firmly, her hand on the doorknob. “They wouldn’t want me to do this. Neither of them.” 

Lucio’s hands were on her waist now; her skin was aflame with disgust, but the tightness in her belly was undeniable. “They don’t have to know anything. One night is all I’m asking, pretty fool. Whatever you want, until sunrise. Tie me up, slap me, burn me, peg me, sit on my face, whatever it is that lights your fire. And they’ll be yours, and safe, under my care, forever.” 

“How do I know you’ll keep your promise?” Iris asked, voice thin, her neck arching ever so slightly at his touch as his alchemical hand traced up her side, cold through the lace that shielded her.

“I have everything to gain and nothing to lose.” He murmured in her ear, the tip of his tongue tracing up the long line of her neck. “And you have so much to lose, little fool.” 

She shuddered, her body uncoiling dangerously, her heart frozen with horror, her mind whirling with the calculus. “Can you follow rules?” 

“Ohh.” He purred. “Now I know you haven’t slept with Noddy. I can follow rules. I can take punishments.” 

Iris wrenched her arms out of his grip. “I’m not talking about rules you can break for pleasure games, Lucy. I’m talking about hard stops. No kissing on the lips. No coming inside.” 

“Painfully easy.” He murmured, his hands back on her body, her shoulders, pushing down the open slope of her robe, the metal making her shiver as it brushed against her skin. “Do we have a deal, pretty fool?” 

Iris wrenched her eyes closed and swallowed down her scream. “What do we do, shake on it?” 

“Trust is the foundation of any relationship, Iris.” Lucio growled in her ear as the robe slipped off her shoulders, slinking to the floor. He turned her slightly, so she was standing in front of an ornate full-length mirror, the soft blush of the lace on her body striking against the vibrating burgundies behind her, the blood red of his robe, his pale face leering at her, towering over her shoulder. The face that looked back at her was hers, she knew, but it hardly registered. 

“Look at you.” Lucio purred, his lips pressed against her neck. “Look how powerful you are. Do you even know what you do to me?” He pushed aside the waterfall of her hair, pressing his nose to the nape of her neck and inhaling deeply. “I almost forgot. I have something for you.” 

“I don’t want your presents, Lucy.” Iris said calmly, evenly, the chill in her voice tangible. 

But he was gone, to the bedside table, where a tiny package lay. He popped it open without a second thought, extracting a starburst of diamonds on a delicate gold chain. “Even you wouldn’t refuse a diamond, would you, Iris?” He was at her back, his fingers on her neck, against the scrapes and the bruises he put there only a few days before, and she wanted to sob. The necklace was stunning, sitting right above her breasts, accentuating their swell. Lucio’s eyes flitted to hers in the mirror, glowing with something she had never seen in him before. Satisfaction. 

“Perfect.” He crooned.

Iris’s gut dropped, she wanted to vomit, and she felt herself spinning, spinning out of herself, floating away, as if she were untethered from her body, from the scene she was watching. 

Is this how it happened? She wondered, her expression blank and still as she watched Lucio sink to his knees behind her, his hands on her hips, one hot, one cold, his cheek pressed to the bare small of her back. “Do you know how badly I’ve wanted this?” He growled against her goosebumped skin, every word vibrating through her. “How I’ve fantasized about you for nearly a year, bending you over every surface in this palace and making you squeal my name as you nearly die of pleasure?” Iris felt her face burn, her chest tighten with panic. Is this really how it happened?

He was lifting the skirt of the lace slip, biting the fullness of her ass now, her eyes were dead in the mirror, he turned her around and pressed his face into her clothed mound, moaning softly. Then she was swept up in his arms, her limbs limp, her nose invaded with peppercorn and sandalwood and firewater. She was on the bed, her legs spread, his hips pressed heavily into hers as he ripped the robe off of himself; he was horribly naked now, skin pale and gleaming over bulging muscles, his gruesome gold arm, his cock already hard and angry red, tip shimmering with leak. 

“If you don’t tell me what you want I’ll just have to ravage you.” He growled, his lips lifted into a snarl, showing carnivorous teeth. “I won’t be able to help myself...” Iris tried to imagine him as Julian, but Julian would never touch her like this, his fingernails scraping roughly across her breasts, down her stomach, ripping tenderly-wrought lace, bruising her hips, unless she told him to. And Asra...Asra rarely rushed like this, he would tease and tease and tease her until she was falling apart and begging him, never fist his hand in her hair and pull her neck long so roughly, never just push aside her panties and grab her before she was wet. He would never…Julian would understand, Julian would forgive her, Julian would still…but Asra…if he came back to her – if he was still alive, she realized bleakly as Lucio palmed her, a choked sound rising from his throat – he would never – _she_ would never –

Fat, hot tears finally rolled down her cheeks, and she inhaled shakily as the diamond sitting on her breastbone shattered, a tiny, tinkling bomb; the diamond shards knifed through the pale skin of Lucio’s face and chest, and he reared up with a roar. Iris ripped the gold chain from her necklace and threw it in his face, grabbing her robe from the floor and shrugging it over her shoulders as she wrenched open the door to the antechamber, her entire body shaking, face burning, she felt like she had been dipped in oil, sliminess coating her skin, her throat, her insides – 

“You fool!” Lucio screeched as the door slammed shut behind her, and she stumbled as she rushed down the long antechamber, both hands falling on the handle that lead her to the hallway, her fingers trembling – 

The door behind her flew open with a bang, so loud, so violent, that she startled, turned. Lucio’s body arced in the door frame, chest heaving, eyes livid, but only for a moment. He dropped, collapsing to his knees, face contorted with furious tears. “Why won’t you love me?!” He bellowed, back bowing as his lips twisted into a trembling grimace, his eyes pointed to the tiled floor as he bled. 

For a moment, Iris was frozen, the strange sight in front of her not computing, Lucio crying, prostrate in front of her. Then his eyes arced up to hers, bloody, pleading and desolate, and she moved – she fumbled the doorknob open and tripped over the threshold – ***** 

Her knees hit not tile, but hard-packed dirt, dusty and fragrant, overgrown with brittle, crackling sea-grass. It was night, moonless, starless, but sweltering hot; the light in front of her was almost orange, glowing, dancing through her fingers as she stared at them, planted in the soil like quivering seeds. But she couldn’t look up, find the light, not yet, as she vomited profuse amounts of seawater onto the sun-scorched earth before collapsing into her own arms. 

Her senses crawled back as her as she lay on the ground, trembling; her racing heart slowly settled and her breath softened in her lungs, and Lucio’s howling voice, his bleeding face, his livid red eyes, his gruesome claw, receded from her. It was then she heard the crackling, gentle but loud, it was then she smelled the ash, the char; it was then her body recognized what heat she was feeling. 

She jerked her head up, eyes wide, the wind whipping up her long hair: the house in the field of lilies, tall windows and stone, the yellow door with the round transom, the steep, steepled roof. Her childhood home was consumed in flames, as if the Devil’s mouth had opened up around it. But it was strange, the tongues of fire were hardly moving, fluttering harmlessly like silk, like she was watching a child’s puppet show. She turned back; the door was gone, as if it had never been there. She faced the fire, breathing in the smoke and ash, and her body took over.

Knees wobbling, breath shallow and panicky, Iris stood, the satin of her robe streaked with dust as she pulled it around her breasts and took a step closer, her brows furrowed; like a trick of the light, the flames crept down, just enough for her to notice. Experimentally, Iris took another step towards the wreck; the flames receded again, lower this time. 

She crept slowly towards the house; the flames weren’t just receding, the house was unburning, the wood on the doorframe growing back, the stone uncharring, glass unshattering, as if she was turning back the clock, the second hand ticking back with each step. When her hand fell onto the crystal doorknob, the flames were gone, and it felt night-chilly under her fingers. Hot tears stung her eyes as the door creaked open. 

It was dark inside, the sun having set, and the only light came from a flickering candle a room away. It was undoubtedly the home of scholars; groaning bookshelves everywhere, in the entryway, lining the living room, even in the kitchen, haloing the farmhouse sink and the long tiled counter, piled precariously high at both ends of the thick, rough-hewn table. It was also full of plants, an exotic palm in the bay window facing the sea in the living room, hanging ferns in quiet corners, culinary herbs growing in all windowsills, succulents on the carved wooden stairs. Selene seemed to share her sister’s green thumb. 

Iris crept quietly into the living room, and found the source of the little light; it was the teenaged Iris from the Tower, sitting in a reading chair with her legs crossed underneath her, the same flowing white dress, the same braids, but unsinged and pristine. The flickering flame sat like a trinket in her palm, illuminating the novel in front of her, though her eyes were still, her brows furrowed in concentration. It was then Iris heard the quiet conversation above them, floating down the stairs from the second floor.

“She should be studying with other magicians, Selene.” Her father’s voice was soft, hardly a rumble. 

The voice that answered was low and throaty, like hers. “She’s only 13.” Selene murmured. “She should be here with us, learning with us. If she wants to learn magic when she’s grown, she can make that choice for herself.” 

There was a pause; and image flooded Iris’s mind of Russell’s brows knit together, the furrows deep – the exact way her younger self’s were. “She wanted to write to Opal. She asked me if I knew where she was.”

Selene’s snorted, percussive and derisive. “She asked me, too.” 

“What harm would it do?” Russell’s voice was still low, but there was a soft, needled edge – this was a repeated argument. “She’s a bright girl, she’s teaching herself. We can’t stop her from reading, from practicing when we’re not watching her. A visit, Selene. Opal could mentor her. Help her control it. ...She’s so powerful, Selene, the Abbess has never seen anything like it...” 

“She would never come back.” Selene’s voice was small, so small Iris barely heard her. “Just like Opal never came back to Vesuvia. She broke mother’s heart.” 

There was a silence, soft, a rustling – then a pause, pregnant and uncertain. Selene’s voice shifted, stony and chill. “I’ve got to get dinner started.” 

Teenaged Iris immediately extinguished the little flame in her hand while the floorboards overhead creaked; the soft thump of bare feet on wood followed as Selene peeked over the railing, squinting into the darkness. Her straight, white-blonde hair was shorter, bobbed bluntly just under her chin, bangs falling to her light eyebrows. Her face was still perfectly round, but she looked thinner, wearier. 

“Iris, didn’t I ask you to start the hearth?” Selene asked, gently but firmly. 

Teenaged Iris met her eyes defiantly and snapped her fingers in the direction of the fireplace. A roaring flame sprung up in it, almost explosive in its heat, almost too much, but it quickly died down to a respectable kitchen fire. 

Selene whipped down the stairs, her brown eyes steely. “Iris Selene Keshet! You know the rules.” 

Iris stood quickly, the book tumbling from her lap, her fiery gaze matching Selene’s. “Why? Why can’t I do magic, Mum?” 

“Because you don’t know how to control it yet.” Selene said quietly, as if explaining for the thousandth time. She was reaching for the larder; Iris outstretched her hand, and potatoes, carrots, onions, flew out of it like rockets – the wooden cutting board wiggled out from under a stack of books, upending it clumsily, and a kitchen knife unsheathed itself, chopping the onions into a haphazard dice as the potatoes and carrots skittered across the counter. 

Selene wheeled around; if her eyes were steely before, they were caustic now. “Iris, what did I _just_ say?”

“How am I supposed to learn to control it if I can’t practice?” Iris shouted; the knife on the cutting board skidded, clinking against the white tiles on the counter, cracking one violently. 

“That’s enough.” Russell was descending the stairs now; his once-youthful brow was now lined from worry, his dark eyebrows wiry and his coppery hairline receding. But he was still striking, tall and barrel-chested, drawing himself up to his full height as he addressed his daughter. “You know better than to shout at your mother.” 

Young Iris huffed, and relinquished her spell, the knife falling with a clatter on the counter. “You won’t listen when I talk, so why not shout?” She yelled. “I want to practice magic. I want to live with Aunt Opal. I don’t understand why you won’t let me learn! This is what I want!” 

Russell’s brow was set, even as his eyes flitted to his partner’s; Iris saw what her younger self did not – the tiny raise of his brow, the little bloom of understanding in his lips, the hurt in his eyes as he met Selene’s forlorn gaze. Russell, with a soft puff of breath, still rumbled quietly, “As long as you’re under this roof, you’ll do as your mother and I say. No magic. It’s too dangerous.” 

Selene’s eyes softened, and she opened her mouth to interject, but Iris interrupted her with a full-throated shriek through closed lips. “I hate it here, and I hate you!” She cried, tears streaming down her cheeks as she rushed between them, ripping open the front door and slamming it behind her. 

She scrambled, in her bare feet, up the grassy knoll, Iris stumbling behind her, grasping her robe together until they reached the little summit, teenaged Iris’s chest heaving as she sobbed. She fell to her knees, fisting the tall grass with her shaking hands, before she threw her head back and screamed, a scream like her body was on fire with agony, a scream like her life depended on it, her face soaked with frustrated tears.

Iris wasn’t prepared. The ground shook, the hot licked and kissed their backs, she stumbled forward before whipping her head around, her long hair still fluttering from the explosion; the entire house was ablaze, not frozen now, flames roaring like lions, ripping the dark sky open with their teeth of light. Her heart stopped; her lungs were useless. “What did I do?” She whispered, but the fire stole the sound. 

Teenaged Iris was frozen, a mirror image of Iris, crouched low on the ground, her head thrown over her shoulder, her eyes wide. And then she was scrambling down the hill, shrieking, “No, no, no no no no…” Her hands were trembling as she reached for the well; the water in it rose in an amorphous orb, but sputtered and broke, raining uselessly over the parched grass. 

Young Iris grit her teeth, trying again; another orb, bigger this time, but her hands shook violently, and it didn’t even make it out of the well before it popped like a bubble. Iris stumbled down the hill, both hands outstretched for the well, taking a deep, centering breath; she imagined the feeling of cool water on her fingers, her arms, imagined how deep the well must be, endless, to the void, imagined the house pristine and beautiful as it was only moments before. She could grasp the water, she could feel it, but she couldn’t lift it, her magic didn’t work here…

“You can’t change the past, lovely.” A voice whispered in her ear, dulcet and low. Iris wheeled around; her mother, or her mother’s form, the wind whipping her blond bobbed hair around, white-gray eyes glittering, the softest, saddest smile spreading her face. 

“Mum!” Young Iris sobbed. “Dad!” She tried one last time to summon the water from the well, but it didn’t even budge, her chest was heaving with panic, her eyes endless ocean. She stumbled to her knees, rushing for the building – eaves were collapsing, showering them with a hailstorm of sparks, and Young Iris held out both of her hands, glowing frighteningly, trying to control the flames, to pull them back down to the earth. 

Iris watched her, tears falling silently, her mouth wide with horror. Young Iris’s whole body was shaking like a leaf now; she was dangerously close to the edge of her magic. She threw her hands down, finally, and watched as the flames grew higher and higher, sinking to her knees with a pitiful, childlike wail, wiping away her tears with her wrists. 

Iris moved before she knew what she was doing. Her steps were soft, quiet, as she approached her younger self, and she sank softly to her knees beside her, feet curled under her hip; she held out her hands in a soft gesture. “Little light, come here.” She whispered, and for the first time, young Iris looked straight into her eyes as if she saw her, before burying her face in her lap, her little body wracked with sobs. 

“Shhhhh.” Iris cooed, stroking her hair; it was singed, falling away in Iris’s hands, but she ignored it. “It’s not your fault; it’s not anyone’s fault. You are not to blame.” Her voice hitched a little in her throat. “Forgive yourself, little light.” 

Her eyes flitted up to the house, now, briefly; it was no longer burning, not even smoking – just a smouldered ruin, charred and desolate. She went to brush a wisp of her hair away, but it was short again. The child in her arms was gone, replaced by the image of her mother, white-gray eyes watching her intently. 

“Very good, lovely.” The Moon whispered, her hand tracing Iris’s face, humanly warm. Iris looked up; the full moon was shining now, casting her light on the shadow-world below her. And then the Moon grasped her hand, their fingers interlocking, and she pulled Iris out of the dream.

*******

Iris blinked repeatedly, rubbing the sleep out her eyes, as she sat up. She was still in the field of winter-lilies, the grasses sweetly swaying, but they were luscious, in full bloom, filling the world with their ambrosial scent. She was laid out on the crest of a hill, and the full moon hung low and glowing, impossibly large on the horizon, framing a delicate gazebo of wrought iron, twined through with vines of lilies. Behind it, something glittered oddly in the light. 

Iris stood slowly, still woozy, but she walked on sure feet to the gazebo. A small glass-topped table and chairs, also of wrought iron, almost silvery in the moonlight. A tea set of fine bone china, the teapot steaming faintly, a tower of sweets, homemade cookies and fingertarts made with dark berries – Iris smelled the burst of currants, the pucker of barberries. And, suspended in mid-air, perfectly framed by the low moon, was a broken mirror wreathed in flowers dipped in silver: lilies, foxglove, starstrands, lavender, asters, forget-me-nots, sweet peas, marigolds.

Iris stared into it; most of the pieces of the mirror were missing, leaving her reflection fractured and innumerable. She reached out to touch it, but warm fingers caught her wrist. 

“Lovely.” The Moon whispered. She was still in Selene’s form, the wind rippling her tiered white skirt, her billowing sleeves, her bobbed white-blonde hair. “You’re awake.” 

“Where are we?” Iris murmured, still entranced by the mirror. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” The Moon replied, one blonde brow playfully raised. “We’re in my realm. You’ve been asleep for some time.” 

Iris clutched between her eyes. “How long?” 

The Moon smiled softly, gesturing behind her, drawing Iris into her other arm. Over the high cliff was the Mearcstapa, completely unscathed, bobbing softly on the gentle waves kicked up by the breeze, tied safely to the rocks below. “Since you fell asleep in your lovers’ arms.” 

Iris’s face crumpled. “Asra, Ilya...are they safe? Are they…?” 

The Moon turned to Iris, her expression knowing as her fingers traced the soft swell of Iris’s cheek. “They’re safe; they’re dreaming. In dreams, you don’t die.” Her brow arced. “No matter how much you might want to.” 

Iris exhaled softly, tears springing into her eyes, and the Moon chuckled as she wiped them away gently with her fingers, her light eyes sparkling. “Tea, lovely? Or something stronger?” She gestured to the two chairs in front of the mirror, in front of the moon. 

Iris sank softly into one of the chairs, leaning heavily on an elbow, palming away her stray tears. “Something stronger?” Her cup filled sibilantly with what looked like liquid moonlight, thin, watery, silvery. 

The Moon raised her eyebrows coyly. “Careful. It’s certainly stronger.” Iris lifted it to her lips; it tasted the way moonlight felt, enchanting and light and sweet, intoxicating and freeing, and it tingled in her mouth, her throat, as she swallowed.

They were silent for a moment, the Moon sipping her tea, Iris her moonshine. Iris turned her gaze back to the broken mirror, but the Moon leaned over the table, grasping her chin gently, pulling her back to her. “Lovely. Be here now.” 

“What is this mirror?” Iris asked quietly, lifting the moonlight to her lips. 

“In its time.” The Moon murmured, eyes glittering. “What did you think of your dreams?” 

Iris paused for a moment, recalling them; they were all extremely vivid in her mind’s eye. “Were they really just dreams?” 

The Moon chuckled, setting down her cup in the saucer with a clink, her gaze meeting Iris’s. “Very astute, Iris. No. They weren’t just dreams. What do you think they were?” 

Iris furrowed her brow. “Memories? But they felt…?” 

“Distorted? Amplified?” The Moon offered, raising her chin slightly. “It’s hard to tell, isn’t it? With your memories gone. And time changes everything. Even memories.” 

Iris was silent, her lips parted as she thought. The Moon smiled softly. 

“We have spoken so many times before, Iris. What have I told you in the past?” She lifted her cup to her lips again, and for a moment, she was smiling too widely, too playfully, to drink. Iris’s heart felt wrung; she wondered if her mother ever truly looked like that, or if it was one of the Moon’s silvery tricks. 

“You deal in traumas. Emotions from the past that are unanswered, unaccounted for. The scars we carry with us every day. You ask us to examine them, to turn them over. You ask us to heal.” 

“Mmm.” The Moon looked thoughtful now, her eyes dreamy. “Do you think you will ever heal from what you saw, Iris?” 

Iris inhaled softly, brokenly, as the memories flooded her. Pushing Julian away in anger in her final moments. The pain of throning, Asra’s fear, his desperation. Lucio’s pride, his power, his warm and cold hands on her body. The flicker of flames in her eyes. “I don’t know.” 

“What if you never heal fully?” The Moon whispered, turning the teacup in her hands. Iris realized now the cup was so, so small, child sized, a toy between the Moon’s fingers. “What if you carry these scars with you forever?” 

Iris blinked softly, her breath cool and sweet in her throat. She smelled the lilies again, the greenery around them, the tang of the sea. She thought of Muriel. “A scarred body is still beautiful.” She murmured.

“Oooh.” The Moon shivered visibly. “How eloquent, lovely. But the scars of the body and the scars of the soul aren’t the same, are they?” 

“No.” Iris agreed, after a moment. “But they both soften over time, right?” Her brows furrowed, and her heart ached; she took another sip of her moonshine, rushing coolly through her veins, strengthening her.

The Moon gazed out to the full moon. “What if you need to heal them fully to face the Devil?” 

Iris startled. She looked up a the Moon, her eyes glittering with fear. “Then I’ll never defeat him.” 

The Moon smiled sweetly, touching the tip of her pointer finger to Iris’s nose. “Precisely, lovely. We cannot wait for our pain to subside to act. Then we would never act.” 

Iris blinked, her eyes wide. The Moon laughed, fully, sonorously. “Our traumas never go away, Iris. We only learn how to name them, to listen to them. To look for the lesson. Every day, it gets easier. But only if you try. Only if you try to try.” 

“To look for the lesson?” Iris repeated softly, her fingertips tracing the edge of her teacup. The moonlight was almost gone. 

“Yes.” The Moon’s eyes softened, sadly. “There is always a lesson. Even if the lesson is that there is no lesson.” Her eyes flitted back up to Iris’s now, looking at her through white-blond eyelashes. “Do you think you need every piece to learn the lesson?” 

Iris inhaled softly. “What do you mean?” 

A corner of the Moon’s mouth lifted, and Iris’s heart surged with nostalgia for a thing she could not remember. “Earthside, you searched for your memories because you believed knowing who you were would help you defeat the Devil. Do you need all your memories to learn the lesson?” She gestured with her open palm to the mirror now. “Do you need who you were before?”

Iris gazed into the mirror, memorizing each and every face that winked back at her, identical in their neverending reflections. She worried her lip; every iteration of her bit her lip too, no matter the angle, the sliver of the glass. 

“I’m the same now no matter what, aren’t I?” 

The Moon raised a brow. “Tell me more, lovely.” 

Iris’s lips turned down softly as her fingers carded through her short hair. “I thought regaining my memories would help me see who I was before. Knowing that would help me move forward. In a way, its true; I needed to see these, to know what scars I bear, so I can start to heal them. So I can share them with Asra, Ilya. The ones I love. But do I need every little piece?” Iris let her fingers linger over her lips, tugging thoughtfully as she turned the empty cup over in her hands. “I can’t let searching for a clarity that may never come keep me from my higher purpose.”

The Moon’s eyes were aglow. “Oh, lovely.” She whispered. “You have grown so, so much.” Before Iris could even think to protest, the Moon pressed a thumb into Iris’s forehead, to her third eye. 

Iris and the Moon were standing in the Hanged Man’s swamp, up to their waists in the warm, fetid water, the sky scarlet and swirling above them. Each of Iris’s memories glimmered and winked in front of them; the Moon turned to Iris, with a wink, and ran a finger over one of the bubbles, before it burst at its apex. 

Iris thought it would hurt, that her head would split, her body double over, the knowledge streaking through her like a scream. But when the Moon smiled softly and the bubbles burst all at once, they rushed into her like a breath, images blurring for a brief moment across her mind’s eye: her and Asra hand in hand, jumping off some foreign cliff into sparkling dark water, whooping with laughter as the sun gleamed on his shoulders; her and Julian standing on the veranda of their rooms, her cheek pressed to his bare chest, as they watched the sun rise, steam puffing from their coffee; her and Nadia, lounging on the lawns, drinking wine, shaking with laughter; her and Aster, curled into one another, sharing a narrow bedroll, giggling even as they shivered; Opal, brewing tea for a customer, the light glinting off her glasses as she turned back to smile at a joke; her and her father, his hand on her shoulder, smiling proudly as she wandered, wide-eyed, through a massive university library; her mother and her on their knees in a little vegetable garden, Selene’s eyelashes fluttering softly as she pressed a seed into the dirt and covered it lovingly with loam; innumerable others, the brilliant and the mundane, the tender and the savage, the bitter, the delicious. 

And then Iris blinked, and they were back on the cliff, the lilies swaying gently; she and the Moon were standing in front of the mirror. It was still shattered, spiderwebbed, but now each piece was accounted for, the cracks lacquered with gold, reflecting back an imperfect but whole image, Iris’s upturned, softened brow, her parted lips, the sooty robe that fluttered in the breeze, the Moon at her side. For the first time in Iris’s recent memory, she recognized her reflection.

“I’m not done with you, you know.” The Moon murmured in her ear, her hand on Iris’s shoulder, smoothing her collar almost absentmindedly. “I never will be. These wounds will reopen and fester. There will be new traumas, new shadows to chase. But you’re ready for the next step.” 

“Which is?” Iris asked quietly, her hand lingering over the frame, fingers tracing the pointed bell of a foxglove bloom, the looped petals of the starstrand below it. In her heart, she already knew the answer.

“Helping others heal.” The Moon replied, her smile warm and sad.

Iris took a deep breath and stepped through the mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: we all learned a lot, didn't we
> 
> also like, maybe call your mom or hug your mom tonight?
> 
> See you in Moon 2


	5. The Moon, Part 2: I Hope It's Your Eyes They're Seeing Through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Depeche Mode - Precious // Amanda Palmer - Machete**
> 
> _CW: graphic depictions of violence/violence against children, MCD referenced, body horror_

The moon was waning, almost useless for light; the rest of the sky was shrouded in cloudcover. The darkness was oppressive, and the chill was insistent. Iris reached to pull her robe closer around her shoulders, but she found white velvet instead – her cloak. Underneath, she was wearing the gray dress, the leather, the short suede boots. She hardly had a moment to consider this before a low voice cut through the quiet, familiar and strange. 

“Just a little further, Iris...” 

Two shadows melted out of the darkness, their faces illuminated and shadowed by the sliver of moon. Asra, his face etched with pain, with exhaustion; leaning heavily on his shoulder was an image of herself, but it made her skin crawl. Her eyes were cloudy, the sclera cold and the irises dim. Her skin was wan, her hair shorn so short that the scalp could be seen in some places. She was breathing heavily into his neck, clinging to him and shaking like a newborn fawn. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out, as if she was muzzled. 

Iris gasped softly. She had no idea how she looked when she was throning. No wonder Asra had been so anxious; she looked as if she might die at any moment.

The two shadows flitted past Iris as if she were invisible, and she slipped silently into cadence behind them. Her eyes were slowly adjusting to the low light now; a narrow, winding alley, the Southside, reeking faintly of urine, stale beer, and standing water. The Tavern district, no doubt. Then she unconsciously, easily ducked her head underneath a plumbing pipe, and the fresh memories scrambled into her vision. Stumbling down this path many nights after carousing at the Raven. Strong arms sweeping her off her feet over the threshold, deep kisses that tasted like spiced rum and chocolate stout as she was pressed into the bed. Opening up the clinic on the ground floor in the morning, the other apprentices slowly trickling in as Iris and Julian started intake. 

The shadows veered, Asra’s face ashen as he hauled Iris up the steep steps to the loft’s landing; he reached out for the doorframe, but this time, there was no keypad, no deadbolt on the door, not even a doorhandle to rattle, just a solid column of cold, weathered steel. Asra clearly hadn’t expected this – his hand hovered, trembling, in front of the space where the lock should be, as if he couldn’t process what was happening. 

Then his eyes flew up, desperate and exhausted, to the door, his brow set and righteous, angry. Gathering Iris into his arms, he angrily pounded the palm of his hand against the warped steel, so loudly Iris covered her ears as it reverberated through the tinny silence of the alley. 

“Ilya!” Asra bellowed, his voice carrying, commanding, but also threaded through with panic. “It’s an emergency – open up, please!” In his arms, the image of Iris whimpered silently, her hands flying to her temples, clawing at the skin there, whether at the sudden sound or the mention of Julian’s name, it was hard to say. He pounded again and called Julian’s name into the night, but the door was unmoved, and there was no one to answer it. 

Asra, with a grunt of frustration, let his magic unravel, slamming his shoulder into the door with the full force of his power; it didn’t budge. 

He stood, panting, in front of threshold, Iris sobbing noiselessly in his arms, before collapsing hard onto one knee, his magic nearly spent. It was then Iris realized why he had to keep leaving her on her own, why he had asked Muriel to track down Julian. He was expending far too much magic keeping her pain at bay. He needed a reprieve; he needed Julian’s help.

“Fuck!” He whispered, his eyes swimming. “Where did you slip off to, Ilya?” 

Iris felt something ice-cold smooth against her hand, and she jerked her fingers away instinctually, her panic firing; a chain, shiny black, so white-hot it was almost cold against her skin, slithering across the cement landing like a snake, like Faust on an extremely warm day, languid and unhurried. The chain wrapped itself around Asra’s wrist, pulling tightly, but Asra hardly noticed as he quickly rubbed his eyes with the base of his palm. 

“Come on, my heart.” He murmured. “Plan B: bribe the apothecarist. Blazhe never could say no to you.” He hauled her to her feet, even as his arms trembled under the exertion, but when Iris looked back up to the door, the scene had changed...

The palace was like a tomb, somber and silent, shadowy with candlelight as Asra wandered, barefoot and dressed in simple but elegant sleeping clothes, through the hallways, Faust twined drowsily around his shoulders. He trailed the fingers of one hand across the marble wall absentmindedly, like they were searching instinctually for touch, for texture they couldn’t find. 

He was in Nadia’s wing; even in the dark, Iris could see the exquisite frescoes, the tall, fluted vases of lavender and jasmine blooms set between the deep arches. Then he was standing in front of a wide set of mahogany doors – the doors to Nadia’s chambers. His hand hovered, uncertainly, over the intricately carved panes, images of fertile goddesses and forest nymphs, before he rapped twice, loudly, against the door. 

There was a long pause, almost confused, before Nadia’s gentle voice called, “Who knocks at this hour?” 

“It’s me, Nadi.” Asra replied softly. There was another pause, some audible stumbling; to Iris’s surprise, Nadia herself wrenched the door open in her sleeping gown, her hair cascading down almost to the floor. Her breath was fetid with wine.

“Asra, dear. What an unexpected visit. Can you not sleep?” 

He shook his head numbly. “I haven’t slept much since I returned.” 

Nadia’s pressed her lips together in sympathy, empathy, and she stepped back from the door, gesturing him into her chambers. “Luckily, I cannot finish this bottle of Gentle Noble alone.” 

Asra snorted softly as he crossed over the threshold, a tiny smile warming his features. “Somehow, I doubt that.” 

Nadia raised one tired brow coyly at him; she pointed him to one of the high-backed chairs in the snug sitting area, which he sank into gratefully. She poured him a glass from the half-drunk bottle on the coffee table, but didn’t pour one for herself, taking instead a hearty pull before she sat on the plush couch across from him, her feet tucked up under her. For a moment, there was silence as she swayed a little in her seat, and Iris realized that this might have been the first time they had talked one-on-one since Asra had returned from his exile. Asra took a sip of his wine, tentatively, almost reservedly. It was Nadia who spoke, with a dainty clearing of her throat. 

“Have you any news of Ilya?” She asked quietly. She was spinning the bottle slowly, the white-gold liquid spiderwebbing against the green glass. 

Asra closed his eyes, and took a deep, pained breath. Iris wanted to reach out and hold his hand, to run her thumb gently over his knuckles as he spoke shakily. “He’s recovering, slowly. The woman I left his care to wrote to me a few days ago with an update.” He traced the rim of his wineglass with a wet fingertip. “He wants to return to his research as soon as possible.” 

“That sounds like our Ilya.” Nadia said with a small smile, her eyes warm with affection. They cooled almost immediately as she sank back into her thoughts. “He remembers nothing of her?” 

Asra shook his head softly. “No.” 

“Just as well.” Nadia mused, her voice distant. “Lucio has stubbornly forbidden anyone in the palace to speak of her. We couldn’t even announce her death, though she was a public figure. It will be good for Ilya to occupy his mind; we can only hope that nothing here triggers him.” 

“I think of her all the time.” Asra said suddenly, solemnly. 

Nadia inhaled softly; she didn’t meet his eyes, instead taking another pull from the wine. 

He continued. “I see her in everything. Framed in the windows of the library, daydreaming. In empty seats at dinner, laughing at your jokes. Running between the hedges in the maze in her bare feet. Lying in the bed we shared.” He made a sound between a choke and a sob. “I keep thinking she’ll walk through the door with a book under her arm, wanting to show me a new spell she learned, her smile lighting up the fucking room. That she’ll...press her forehead to mine, hold my face in her hands, kiss me. Nadi...” He was crying. “Its all so dark without her… I can’t… I can’t move on…” 

“Asra…” Nadi began, sinking further back into the couch. It was obvious now that she was quite drunk, softly so, her eyes pellucid, her limbs heavy. “I… I am so sorry. It pains me to speak of her.” 

Asra’s gaze flickered to hers, violet eyes delirious. “It’s like she was a dream, Nadi. Like she was just erased from the fabric of the universe. No one speaks of her. I feel like I’m going fucking crazy.” 

Nadia’s voice was so small. “Asra… please… I-I can’t…” A little tear was beading in the corner of her eye. 

Asra’s eyes grew chilly; his posture straightened, and he drained the wine in his glass with one long gulp before setting it down delicately. “My apologies for the intrusion. I don’t know… I don’t know what I thought I’d find here.” He stood abruptly, Faust bobbing indignantly on his shoulder, and strode to the door. 

“Asra, wait –” Nadia began, a hand outstretched, but the door latched tightly between them. 

In the hallway, he leaned his forehead heavily on the door; it was pleasantly cool on his skin, and he ran his fingertips over the polished wood, welcome in the early summer heat. It was the closest thing yet. Iris watched, in horror, as another chain slunk out from the darkness and wrapped firmly around his other wrist, tightening painfully. He didn’t notice. He was already walking away… 

The colors around them blurred as he walked, the shapes on him shifting to his favorite long vest, a dark gray shirt, leather pants in a dusty, warm brown. It was late spring in the forest, the loyal dogwoods and ancient cherries filling the air with their scent, each tree dripping with the wild-bright green of new buds. They were near the chapel of cedars – Iris could smell them through the blooms, feel the reverberation of their sacred energy on her skin. 

Asra was anxious; normally on rare and fragrant days like this, he would be meandering through the woods, smelling flowers, plucking petals out of the sky, searching for fiddlehead ferns and ramps and dandelions to bring back to the shop, reveling in the tentative, virgin kiss of spring, but he was rushing over the path today, picking through the familiar underbrush like he was in a trance. 

Iris recognized the path, so many little memories welling up in her of walking, just like this, two paces behind Asra, over a gnarled root, two dancing steps over a humming brook; soon, they were standing in front of the massive, grizzled cedar, the little dugout with the tall door. Asra didn’t even bother to knock; he placed his hand on the wood of the door, and several sigils glowed white, unloosing themselves into the ether, before Asra carefully opened the door. 

The hut was cold and damp; the hearth was black with soot and disuse, and a fine layer of dust, of dirt from the roots above, blanketed everything like silence. Asra paused, eyes wide, clearly startled to find Muriel’s home so derelict. He ran his fingers over the table, tracing lazy waves over the surface before snapping his fingers, lighting a roaring fire in the hearth. His eyes darted around the room, looking for some clue, some hint, finally falling on the bear statuette in the corner, the paint worn over the creature’s grimace. 

The hut was so small that Asra could reach out and touch it without moving from the hearth; Iris felt the careful, tentative warmth it radiated as she sidled behind Asra, so close she could see the gentle roll of his chest as he breathed calmly, slowly, keeping his heartbeat even though his fingers shook with apprehension. From the statuette, a memory bloomed, hot and vivid in Iris’s eye as they slipped back together into the warmth pressed against their backs…

_Iris’s heart surged with affection as her eyes adjusted to the rosy light. It was some kind of tent, no, a cave? A makeshift home, draped haphazardly with unartfully mismatched tapestries, sheets, and blankets. The walls were pocked with hidey-holes, dug out roughly with a child’s magic, now holding trinkets and drams and totems, jars of herbs and bottles of tinctures and a few books, hardly recognizable, their covers were so loved, their spines so wizened. There was enough space for some cushions, a low, cobbled-together table made of driftwood, and a bedroll, piled high with torn blankets, a quilt, and some filthy-looking pillows._

_It was here that Asra was curled, his head on Muriel’s shoulder, but neither of them could be older than 13 – Asra painfully thin, short for his age, his eyes still far too large for his face. Muriel, even as a child, was bulky and imposing, though the bones of his clavicle, his cheeks, his wrists, were more pronounced, his dark hair lank and tangled. They were sleeping, their breath soft and steady, out of time like some intricate maraxixi rhythm._

_Then, there was a shout – a war-cry, some fiendish ululation from the back of the throat, a rising chorus of answering calls. Muriel sat up, his eyes wide, as if he had been struck across the back with hot irons, as if he had seen a ghost. Asra was jolted awake, rubbing his eyes, his mouth downturned in an almost adorable frown as he mumbled with half-dreams._

_Muriel grasped Asra’s shoulders desperately. “We have to go.” He muttered; still so young, but his voice was low and rough, even when fired through with fear._

_Asra protested wordlessly, drowsily, but Muriel hauled him to his feet and they lurched through the low entrance to their hideaway. The beach was dotted with little structures and sputtering firepits where other orphans burned driftwood and trash for warmth. Others were stumbling out of their lean-tos, their tents, sitting up in their bedrolls – some, Iris realized with a churn of her stomach, were no older than three, holding the trembling hands of siblings, of kind protectors._

_And then they were scattering, running as fast as their legs could carry them; the Count’s guard had descended, swathed not in their usual pristine white uniforms, but in ink-black and crimson. They kicked down tents, smashed the little structures that held everything in the world to these children. Someone had started a fire and was throwing bedrolls, bags, belongings, into the flames._

_The children that were too small or too terrified to run were scooped up in large, black-gloved hands, and even though Iris could do nothing to stop it, her magic surged at her fingertips, white-hot sparks of anger arcing through her nerves. At the center of the guard, standing imperiously with one hip cocked, was Lucio, his bare chest swimming with gold chains, his scarlet waistcoat and cape glinting fearsomely like blood in the firelight. His eyes were pale and cold, his mouth twisted into a demonic grin as he surveyed the chaos around him._

_Muriel’s grip on Asra tightened; he turned to him, his green eyes cloudy with rage. “Go!” Asra, suddenly alert, eyes narrowed with frightening focus, searched Muriel’s face, instincts teetering between fight and flight. Then, with the softest squeeze of Muriel’s arm, he bolted, running faster than anything Iris had ever seen before shimmering into nothingness: an obscurity spell, and a powerful one._

_One by one, the fleeing orphans disappeared into the mist, as if the blanket of night had been thrown over them. Lucio’s eye twitched, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a sneer of annoyance – he opened his mouth to say something, but he was tackled bodily to the ground, Muriel’s compact weight knocking the wind out of him._

_Muriel straddled Lucio’s chest while he sputtered for breath and landed several punches square on his jaw, his nose, his face, before the much-bigger man grabbed the child’s long hair and pulled him off. The Count rose back onto his booted feet, jerking Muriel up with an unceremonious yank, making him cringe with pain; Lucio was livid, blood from a broken nose pouring down his chin._

_“The Merchants Guild was right.” He hissed venomously. “The docks are infested with vermin.” He kneed Muriel in the chest brutally, knocking him sprawled out on his back. Muriel dry-heaved, but Lucio was relentless, his eyes frenzied as he kicked Muriel over and over, without mercy. When Muriel was limp and breathing raggedly, wetly, Lucio finally stopped, spitting on the ground, expectorate pink and frothy with blood. “Give the little magician my regards.” He drawled, his tone almost bored now, before marching away with an imperious sweep of his cloak, the guard falling into file behind him, leaving the little camp in utter ruin._

_For a long, dreadful moment, the air was still, sibilant with the sound of rushing waves, of Muriel’s shaky breaths. Then the space beside him shivered, and Asra appeared, brows furrowed and eyes watery. “That was really stupid.” He murmured, his hands already glowing with soft pulses of golden light as he knelt over Muriel, healing his face, his stomach, his back._

_Muriel sighed weakly. “It was so you could escape. So everyone could escape.”_

_“Like I would leave you.” Asra retorted sharply, dropping the spell; he gingerly touched Muriel’s belly, checking for lingering tenderness. “Especially if you’re going to do dumb shit like this.”_

_Muriel’s eyes fluttered open. “I think I broke his nose.”_

_“Good.” Asra growled. “He deserves every bone in his body broken.” Even as he said this, his face fell, his lip quivering. “But don’t...don’t do that again...” His hands fell limply to his sides, his chin bowed against his chest as he sat heavily on his feet, shoulders shaking._

_Muriel said nothing, only looking up at the spray of stars in the night sky. The blood moon was only a sliver, hanging low and certain, dancing on the waves like a banner in the wind._

The memory receded, and Asra look just as he did as a child, his head slung slow, his shoulders trembling. Chains, white hot, glittering black, smelling achingly of blood, were creeping up his legs to his chest, twining around his waist. He pulled his hand quickly off the bear totem, and it rattled before tumbling off the shelf onto the dirt floor with a solid, heavy clatter. 

Asra stared at it, his eyes icy, before he swept away, extinguishing the fire with a flick of his wrist. The cedar door slammed heavily shut behind him, the sigils glowing weakly as he marched back to the city, the chains around him clanking ominously... 

The streets of Vesuvia sprung up around them as the dream warped; Asra and Iris were wearing pristine bleach-white, shrouds wrapped loosely around their heads. Iris’s hand was nestled in the crook of Asra’s elbow as he led her gently back to the shop, and the ceremonial ashes around her eyes were furrowed, her face streaked with black, fearsome in her grief. They were silent; Iris had no tears and no words left, though she sniffed weakly every few moments or so. Asra’s eyes were far away.

They rounded the corner to their winding, cobbled street, and another figure, also dressed completely in white, lingered at their doorstep. A tall, willowy man, past middle-aged, his skin the color of walnut wood, his long hair piled up in a gauzy turban around his head. He leaned heavily on a grizzled cane, a weather-worn hand tracing the doorframe lovingly. 

Asra straightened, and gave Iris a soft squeeze on the underside of her forearm, leaning a little into her. “Can you go inside and put the kettle on?” He murmured quietly. Iris looked up suddenly, her gaze fierce with grief as it settled on the man, and then her face crumbled. She nodded, and Asra let his palm linger over her back as she mounted the stairs without a word, deftly unlocking the door and letting it latch softly shut behind her. 

“It’s been a long day.” Asra offered by way of apology. He sounded exhausted. 

The man smiled weakly, dark eyes velvety with compassion; the ashes didn’t sing on his skin like Iris’s or Asra’s, but they made the whites of his eyes unbearably bright. “It’s never easy to bury a friend. It’s even more difficult to bury a mother.” He gripped Asra’s shoulder, his touch familiar. “We all thought she had more time.” 

Asra was silent; his breathing was calm and even, but his eyes were distant, a little chilly. “What brought you here, Blazhe?”

Blazhe’s smile dropped a little. “Did Opal talk to you about the shop?” 

Asra shook his head. “She couldn’t talk much, near the end. She slept most of the time. And then...” 

Blazhe nodded; he fished two envelopes out of his vest, both stamped with the Praetor’s seal. “I went with her to declare succession. I was to be Iris’s guardian, take over the shop. But at the last minute, she changed her mind.” Blazhe exhaled softly, a tiny smile warming his bold features. “Just like her. But she knew...” He handed the envelopes to Asra. “She knew you weren’t going anywhere.” 

Asra turned the envelopes over in his hands – one, the larger, was addressed to Iris, the other to him. He traced the wax seal – the letter sprung open, revealing a notice of guardianship and a letter from Opal, several pages long, and a brass keyring with several keys. 

Blazhe’s smile was pure, sweet light as Asra scanned both letters, before looking up, eyes wide. Blazhe chuckled. 

“My advice...” He murmured knowingly. “Let her come to you. She will, when she’s ready. I’ve seen the way she looks at you.” 

Asra flushed a dusky red as he blinked back the stinging in his eyes, stowing the letters safely in the beaded sash around his waist. “Iris is putting on the kettle on…would you like to stay for tea?”

Blazhe shook his head. “I need to get back to the shop. But if you need anything, you know where to find me.” He lifted his chin to the door. “Opal would do just about anything for that girl, and if anything will honor her memory, it’s making sure she’s safe and happy.” 

“Thank you.” Asra whispered, his voice thin. Blazhe gripped his shoulder one last time before turning away, shuffling down the street on his limp, leaning heavily on his cane. 

Asra turned to the doorway; it was littered with pots of white hyacinths and foxglove, gifts from the neighbors and shopkeeps in the district who had heard of Opal’s passing. There were also gifts, chunks of opal, both polished and rough, books of poetry, grief blankets and jars of honey and preserves, freshly baked pumpkin bread from Selasi. The lantern was shrouded in white linen; it would stay wrapped for the next seven nights. Asra’s eyes traced the three locks on the door, turned the keyring over in his hand. The tears slipped out now, cutting through the ashes, and chains wrapped tightly around his ankles as he slowly ascended the steps; he quickly wiped his tears away, fingers coming away black, as he opened the door to the shop...

The rain was falling in torrents over the gardens, releasing the wet velvet scent of the hyacinths, the irises, the peonies, into the oppressive heat. The rain, heralded by the sultry crush of thunder, was welcome when it finally broke through the suffocating girdle of humidity that lingered all afternoon; when Asra stepped off of the marble veranda out into the cool downfall, the neck and back of his billowing white blouse was already soaked through with sweat. 

It clung, drenched, to him now, diaphanous and creased like ripples in a stream under the chains that encircled him, chiming softly as he padded slowly, barefoot, through the labyrinth, his long white skirt trailing behind him like the crest of a wave. At first, he seemed to meander, running his fingers through the leaves of the hedges, velutinous and damp, rolling his neck back so the rain could run over his eyes, his face, slicking back his halo of curls with an aching, languid movement of his hand when they grew too soaked to bear. When he came upon a patch of lavender irises, he stooped and plucked one, inhaling deeply. Behind him, Iris was drenched, too, pulling the cloak close around her shoulders as she drifted behind him like a gray ghost, careful and silent. 

Then, they came upon the little alcove where the willow’s roots curled out, where the Devil spoke to Iris disguised as Death. The stretch of branches over their heads offered reprieve from the rain, but Asra hardly noticed, dropping to his knees and laying himself down, his cheek pressed into a twisted root by the willow’s base. Asra lovingly tucked the iris into a deep knot, the petals laid across the bark as if the bloom were sleeping, before his shaking fingers drifted, finding the carving of her name in his handwriting – Iris realized this action was ritual. The base of the tree was littered with plucked flowers, some long-withered, some still fresh with dew. 

“The first rain, Iris. Summer has arrived.” He whispered. “Do you remember how we’d dance? We would get absolutely soaked. I could watch you for hours, twirling and laughing, your face lit up with joy.” The memories rushed to Iris, crushing her; her as a young teen, probably that first year she knew Asra, looking back at him through the choppy hair that plastered her face, stomping in the dusty puddles of their street. Older, her thin skirt clinging to her stretching hips, watching breathlessly as Asra spun slowly, his hands outstretched to the rain, like embracing an old friend; she pined for him, even then. Then, her hands on his cheeks, their foreheads pressed together, their lips brushing against each others’, rivers of warmth running down their bare skin as lightning painted the sky with bright. “I still can’t believe the world goes on without you, my heart...”

Asra tightened, coiled like a snake, and his face crumpled as he sobbed. He cried her name into the dark, into the cacophony of the storm, over and over like a prayer; each cry was louder than the last, until he was calling for her, as if she would appear around the corner, as if she had only disappeared around the hedges for a moment, to smell the peonies, the irises. The chains, the chains, savage and obsidian, crept up his chest, crossing over his heart, his neck, his waist, tightening so much that Iris thought he would choke, but still he called her name, his chest heaving. 

Overcome, Iris fell to his side, clutching at the chains that ensnared him; agony surged through her, Asra’s grief, his fear, his loneliness, searing the palms of her hands until they were rough and raw, but she didn’t let go, desperately trying to tug them off of his chest; they wouldn’t budge, as if they were melded to Asra’s very skin. 

Iris finally recoiled, gasping, as the blood seeped from her palms, her hands feeling like they had been dipped in boiling oil – at first, she thought the light around the edges of her vision was pain, but the scene was boiling, too, bubbling white around her, until she and Asra were completely consumed in blank, in blinding, blinking nothing. 

But it was not the nothing Iris had seen in her dreams, in her visions of Death’s gate – the sea of the dead roiled, waves churned to white froth around them. They were kneeling on the stone steps that lead down, down, through the milk-marble gate that stretched above them to oblivion. Asra was panting, his breath almost impossible, ragged, his golden cheeks streaked with sheaths of kohl-dark tears as he looked up, his body prostrate to the sight in front of him. 

Three figures – Iris’s heart twisted at the cold of their eyes, even as they appeared to them in familiar shapes. Death, in a billowing dress of black gauze, gold chains and baubles, jeweled pomegranates, the three of swords, evil eyes, draped around her neck, a horse’s skull obscuring all of her features but her predawn blue hair, her indigo irises, her gold pupils. In her clawed hands was a rough-hewn ruby, massive, the size of her fists, pulsing, pulsing with pearly lavender light, tossed gently, almost playfully, against the wild waves. 

At her side, the fox-headed Magician, his galaxy-eyes barely glimmering as he surveyed Asra, uncanny without his trademark smirk, his red and purple and black robes imperious and unbelievable. And, on Death’s other side – Iris, or at least, her form, stretched and strange, her hair long, long, swimming in the tempestuous sea, a flowing robe of the softest purpling blue, like her eyes, but drained, drained of their life. Her ears were tapered and soft, velutinous, twitching, and her bare shoulders were spotted with white fur, limned in fawn brown.

Death bit her lip, her pomegranate-red nails digging into the jewel in her hand – the light shimmered, and Iris’s hand flew over her heart, her chest constricted like panic – at her side, Asra whimpered, just barely flinching away from the Gods in front of him, burying his cheek in the gold-and-green silks on his shoulder. 

Iris could imagine the corner of Death’s mouth rising as she turned her head, barely, barely, to the Fool. “Shri. You’re sure?” 

The Fool’s eyes flashed as she met her sister’s sidelong gaze. “Love like this is rare, Hecate.” 

“Enki must have been very persuasive.” Death purred, gaze shifting to the Magician. 

“It was not he who persuaded me.” The Fool replied softly, her gaze falling back to Asra now, Iris’s lips lifting into the smallest, smallest smile. 

Death’s grin grew wide and wild now. “Asra, child.” His head whipped up, his curls rippling in the stormy winds that circled them now, peeling away the water from under the Arcana’s feet. “This is not the natural order of things. What you are asking for is exceptional.” She crouched down in front of him, but he didn’t cower, even as more tears dripped down his cheeks, as her clawed fingers gently lifted his chin. “And yet, you would pay this price for her?” 

He didn’t waver, voice clear and soft, and Iris ached. “I would do anything for her.” 

“Then why not join her, child?” Death whispered. “Much easier... no?” Her eyes were soft, warm, even behind the bleach-white bone. 

Asra’s face fell, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed heavily. “I… I want to live.” His voice was barely a croak, and Iris could have broken, could have died, to watch his lips tremble, to watch the tears rush down his cheeks now. “I never had anything to live for before her. I want to live by her side. Wherever she takes me.” 

Death raised her eyebrow. “Even if she drags you to Hell?” The sea behind her was coalescing, more shapes, the milky water shimmering, frightening, as the storm waters raged, swirled, parted below her, a terrifying whirlpool. 

“I’ll follow her.” His eyes were shining, shining with certainty. “I’ll follow her anywhere.” 

Death’s smile was soft, but her eyes sang. “Oh, child.” With a fluid motion, she pressed his heart back into his hands. “Careful what you wish for.” 

The waters spread apart like a lover’s lips, the eye of the whirlpool, before him as Death stepped back. Every Arcana now stood beside her, a line of impossible power. The Moon, in her cape of white and silver, her wolf’s eye’s sharp. The Sun beside her, in his impossible golden crown, the terrifying sharpness of his talons. The Hanged Man, ink-black feathers, silken funeral shroud – his red eyes flitted to Death’s indigo, once, and she nodded as his hand came to rest on her shoulder. The Lovers, two snakes intertwined, mirror images, watching with wide, unblinking eyes. Even the Devil, his leering grin, his curling horns, his oily power radiating from him like a rancid star. And the Fool, still in Iris’s form, expression blank, only the tiniest hint of a smile in the curve of her lips.

At the bottom of the whirlpool, a form lay against the craggy stone steps, blue-skinned, still; Asra’s eyes flew wide, and he arced forward, but paused, breath catching in his throat, before his eyes darted to Death, still before him. The wind’s roar was deafening now, the sea still churning, waves taller than either Iris or Asra, threatening, threatening to drown them all in Death’s nothing. 

“It has to be you, child.” Death murmured, almost as if she wished it wasn’t true. 

The shudder that shook Asra was unmistakable as he crawled forward, carefully – it was her, her, ears and hands and feet blue with the cold, streaked with red, her long hair swirled around her in drenched coils. She wasn’t breathing, wasn’t moving, her eyes were closed, but it was her – the moles that ringed her stomach, the pale stretchmarks that crowned her hips, the beauty marks under her eye, under her lip. The soft lashes that fell over her cheeks, the lips, parted, as deep and dark as her irises were behind her red-veined eyelids.

The tears, silent, were still rolling down Asra’s face as he reached her, as he arced over her, his sparkling eyes darting over her features, disbelieving, terribly, terribly frightened. His fingers tightened around the heart in his hands, still pulsing with that beautiful, horrible opal-lavender light, and he looked up, not at Death this time, but at the Fool. 

She was crouched beside him now, her hand on his shoulder, warm, soft. “I’m here, little light.” She murmured. “It’s okay.” Even her voice sounded just like Iris’s, just like when she had heard the voice of the Fool before, in that first reading, in all the other readings after, guiding her off the edge of the cliff, guiding her towards the light on the far horizon. 

Asra’s lips trembled now, and his body shook like a leaf – he bowed, the heart still pulsing in his hands. The Fool’s hands slid down from his shoulders, covering both of his, soft, gentle. “Together.” She whispered, her voice almost nothing in his ear. “We’ll do it together.” 

Asra took a deep breath, seven counts in, seven counts out, and the Fool smiled, tender, certain, squeezed his hands encouragingly. Then he dug his fingernails into his own heart, like it was made of nothing but jelly. 

He screamed, arched, as if his soul was being rent, ripped at the seams, ripped from his body, and Iris felt it all, a fire worse than even the agony of the Devil’s chains, a soul-wound so deep that Iris screamed with him, her voice shattered and ragged; but the Fool didn’t rear away from him, only wrapping her strange, long, lithe body around him, her hands still warm against his. With a heave his chest, a guttural shriek, the heart split, jagged, splintered, one tiny pulsing thing in each palm, so small, so small and fragile that Iris wanted to weep.

The Fool moved, liquid, across from Asra, arced over Iris’s body, her hands still wrapped around his. “No hesitation.” She whispered to Asra. The Arcana loomed over them, their expressions still sad, steely, dispassionate, but the Fool was soft, the Fool was warm, the Fool was courage. “Together. We move together.” 

Asra, shaking, shaking, the tears had never stopped, they dotted his changshan, collar stained with kohl, his breathing wild, his heartbeats wild, as he met the Fool’s eyes. Indigo, bright, starry, just like Iris’s, her lips soft and parted like Iris’s, the two dimples showing now with her wide, encouraging smile, like Iris’s. With a swift movement, he pressed one of the hearts into the Fool’s chest – it slid in easily, like butter melting into bread, and Asra screamed once again as his own broken, mangled heart slipped between the skin into his breast. The Fool leaned down and kissed Iris’s sleeping form, as her hair fell from her shoulders in long, long ribbons, like it had been ripped out at the root...

A metallic screech grated against Iris’s ears, and she wheeled around, her body arced over Asra’s protectively, he was heaving with sobs, with pain – the scene around them had changed, again, but this time, it was oddly solid under Iris’s feet; rather than the fluid, silver light of dreams, they were flooded with the razor-sharp haze of desert sun, the rocks under them baked red and raw, the sand on Iris’s fingers like rust. The air smelled vaguely of sulfur, and Iris could practically feel the rain on her skin steaming off of her skin as they stood in the strangling dry heat.

The willow had grizzled, twisted and reticulated in the sun like a fossil. A door emerged from the deadened trunk, dipped entirely in gold and alive with whirring gears, elaborate carvings in the metal that gleamed white with power, crossed over and over with glittering black chains. A magician’s gate, sealed away long ago.

As Iris stared down the door, dazzled by its finery, there was another cry from below her, high and childlike; Asra was gone, or rather, he was not the same. Younger than the memory Iris had seen, his deep, violet eyes were wide and watery, his little mouth open and trembling; he was dressed in clothes far too big for him, perhaps an adult’s, a large maroon scarf and a simple shirt, draped haphazardly across his chest. His curls were unruly, unbrushed and unwashed, and his face was streaked with dirt, with tears. 

“Where are you?” He wept at the closed door. “Why…why did you leave me all alone?” His tiny body arched, struggling weakly at the chains that continued to wrap around him as the door whirred impassively. Iris’s hands shook; then she placed both her hands on the child’s shoulders, gently, carefully. 

Asra twisted to look up at her, his eyes frantic and pleading; she hushed him, her hands looping around him as she pulled her to him in a soft embrace. “I’m here with you, little light.” She cooed, her voice musical and warm. “You’re not alone.”

There was a flash of white light, blinding, and a sonorant shattering; the chains around Asra loosened and fell like shed snakeskin, and he was an adult again, his hands flying up to wrap around Iris’s shoulders as she embraced him, his face buried into her neck, wetting the white of her cloak. “Iris...” he sobbed softly. “Are you…?” 

“I’m here.” She whispered, kissing his ears, his cheek, his temple. “I’m here, and I’m real.” She held him for a long moment, her palms screaming with pain, her heart hammering along with his as he wept. Finally, he pulled away from her, staring into her eyes, brushing the soaked hair out of her face, before they turned together to the door. 

The chains on the gate glinted, sinister, and sizzled like live wires, some dropping down and swaying in front of them like cobras; Iris took a step towards them, and they danced ever closer, but Asra’s hand flew out in front of her, a warning, worry etched into his forehead. 

“Don’t get any closer, Iris.” He whispered. “Those are the Devil’s chains.” 

“I know.” Iris said, her voice strained as her hand fell onto his, gently pushing it away. Asra’s eyes widened in alarm, feeling the rawness of her palm; he turned her hand over in his, horrified. 

“How...” He whispered as he summoned soft pulses of golden light, his palm over hers, but the wounds wouldn’t close. 

“You were dreaming, and I followed you in.” Iris murmured. “The chains kept binding you the deeper we went. I tried… I tried to pull them off of you...” 

Asra’s breath was shaky as he took both her hands in his; gently, he kissed the base of each palm, at the join of her wrist. “That was foolhardy.” He whispered against her skin, his eyes flitting to hers.

“I know.” Iris muttered. “Sort of.” 

“Sort of?”

Iris turned her gaze back to the door. “Is this familiar to you?” 

The sound Asra made was half sigh, half hum. “I don’t recognize it, but I feel like I should. Like I’ve been here before.” He swallowed. “Maybe I have been here before. I’ve wandered these realms, and memories made here can be slippery.” 

“You were crying, yelling at it.” Iris gingerly placed her hand on his back. “You were a child.” 

Asra seemed to steel, but Iris felt the fine tremor that ran down his spine. “Maybe we should turn back.” 

“No.” Iris said quickly, resolutely. “The Moon brought you here. Whatever’s behind this door...” She paused, lip worried between her teeth. “You need to address it to move forward.” 

Asra said nothing, his shoulders squared to the door, but Iris could sense his trepidation. “You won’t be alone, my heart.” She murmured sweetly. “We’ll do it together.” She gave him a soft smile, and raised her hand to the door. After a moment’s hesitation, Asra mirrored her, his gaze meeting hers; in unison, they took a deep breath, in for seven counts, out for seven, and their magic flowed through each other, softening their forms, blending the two of them together like waves smoothing over a beach. 

“It didn’t work to force the chains off.” Iris whispered. “But what if we sapped them of their power?” Asra nodded, his hand falling onto the small of her back, pulling her closer; they closed their eyes, and imagined the chains lifeless, limp, stripped.

The chains shuddered and dropped from the tree like shaken fruit, coiling softly in the dust before disappearing in wisps of black smoke. Asra and Iris froze, uncertain; the air around them seemed to tremble, as if they had unraveled the whole realm around them. 

Then the door pealed like a struck gong, over and over and over again, so loud that Iris’s bones rattled, that the rocks around them shook, that she curled into Asra’s arms as he wrenched her back from the door, his body wrapped around her like a shield. But no blast came, no wave of terrifying magic, just a dazzling flash of white light followed by the gentle creaking of metal on metal as the door crept open slowly, gently, uncertainly. 

Iris felt Asra’s neck shift against her, and she lifted her head, blinking back the stars that crowded her vision. “Are you all right, my heart?” She murmured. “That was… oddly anticlimactic…” 

But Asra made no sound. His face was frozen in shock, eyes wider than Iris had ever seen them. Framed in the golden doorway were two equally shocked faces: a woman and a man, early middle-aged, not much older than Julian. The woman was honey-skinned and beautiful, her white hair obscured by an elegant Nuru headwrap, her ample curves swathed modestly in dazzling purples and shimmering golds. The man was shorter, slight but densely muscled, rich brown hair haloing his kind, bespectacled eyes with chaotic curls. He was Vesuvian, dressed in a simple long vest and an embroidered shirt, the sleeves hiked up around his shoulders like a dockworker’s. Both of them looked achingly familiar to Iris, but her clairvoyance whispered they had never met before. 

Asra shook in her arms, so unsteadily that Iris braced herself to catch him; then it struck her through, like weak eyes blinking back sunlight after a long night in the dark. The woman’s nose, on the shorter side, nostrils wide. The color of the man’s eyes, like the earliest violets in spring. The woman’s impossible cheekbones, the glint of the sun on her skin. The man’s hands, sturdy but shapely, a maker’s hands. They were Asra’s, all of it the same as Asra’s. Or rather, Asra’s was the same as theirs. 

In startlingly beautiful unison, as if they were one, they opened their arms, eyes glossy with tears. “…Asra?” The man muttered, disbelieving, his voice lower than Asra’s but just as sweet. The woman’s lips trembled violently before she spoke, her voice throaty and warm, even as it cracked.

“My baby…”

Asra took one unsteady step towards them, then turned back to Iris, reaching for her hand, a wordless, begging question; she looked into him, weathering the storm of emotions that battered him, confusion and hope, fear and joy. She pressed the top of her hand into his palm, interlacing their fingers, her other hand falling onto the swell of his bicep as he led her through the golden door. 

The cool of night air almost sucked them into the gate; the sky was a vigilant indigo, rolling clouds framing a full moon whose light loomed over them like an eye through a peephole. The door was nestled on a vantage point of cracked yellow clay; Iris felt dizzy looking out over their gate, an evergreen forest as far as the eye could see, the golden canyon cut through with a viridian river, rolling hills swathed in purple and pink – Iris could almost smell the lavender from there. 

And then Asra wrenched his hand from Iris’s, breaking into a sprint as he breached the distance between him and the other magicians, dropping into their waiting arms. They were all crying, laughing; the woman, Asra lifted and spun through the air as she clutched to her skirts, and the man pulled Asra into a backbreaking embrace, gently stroking his hair and murmuring into his ear. Iris hung back, observing quietly, not wanting to intrude.

“I thought…” Asra stammered, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. “I thought I’d never see you again… I thought you were dead...” The woman cupped his face, touching the tip of her nose to his. 

“We never gave up hope that we would see you again.” She whispered fiercely, the pain in her voice sending a chill down Iris’s spine. “And here you are…our child...” She held him out at arms length, her hands smoothing down to his shoulders, her almond-shaped eyes, the color of pre-dawn light, dancing over him. He was just taller than both of them, his chest broader than his father’s, his hips set wider. “How old are you? It’s...” Her voice faltered. “It’s impossible to keep track of time here.” 

Fresh tears welled in Asra’s eyes. “18 years. You’ve been gone 18 years. I’ll turn 30 in the summer.” 

“30.” Asra’s father breathed. “30 years old, by the Gods...” 

“But you...you look exactly the same...” Asra touched his mother’s forearms; Iris could almost see the memories dancing behind his eyes, of being held in those exact arms. 

“Time moves differently here.” Asra’s mother murmured, dreamy eyes flitting to her partner’s. “If at all. Our bodies never aged. Making it all the more difficult to know...” Her voice trailed off, and she drew Asra back into her embrace; he buried his face into her scarf, inhaling deeply. 

The man opened his mouth, breathing in softly, before pausing. “Have you… have you been safe? Happy?” 

For a desolate moment, Asra didn’t respond; he pulled away from his mother, his eyes downcast. “Not always happy.” He mumbled, finally. “And not always safe. The… Vesuvia is not kind to the destitute. There were many years where I didn’t know if I would live through the season.” 

The man’s face collapsed as if he’d been punched; the woman’s eyes swam with tears, looking away, distraught. “…I’m so sorry, my child.” The man whispered, his hand lingering over Asra’s shoulder, squeezing gently. 

“We both are.” The woman agreed, eyes glassy. “No apology can ever be enough.” 

Asra’s eyes brightened, and he turned back to Iris, the beginnings of a smile pricking against his cheeks. “At least…I wasn’t alone. I had friends, I had people looking out for me. I had…” He beckoned gently for Iris to come closer. She straightened, suddenly aware of her appearance; soaked to the bone, her short hair plastered around her forehead, her clothing caked with dirt and dust. She surreptitiously adjusted her skirt and smoothed down her hair before throwing her cloak back and stepping forward awkwardly. Asra wound his hand around her shoulder, pulling her closer to him with obvious intimacy, his eyes alight with adoration.

The woman’s eyes darted from Iris to Asra back to Iris, a coy, knowing look passing over her stunning features. “Oh, hearing that warms my heart.” She cooed, a genuine smile creeping across her face. “Asra, would you introduce us?” 

Both Asra and Iris blushed deeply, but Asra cleared his throat. “Of course, uh… mom, dad, this – this is Iris. She’s my partner.” He turned his face to Iris. “Iris, these are my parents: my mother, Aisha, and my father Salim.” 

Iris wavered uncertainly. “Hello. I… it’s so lovely to meet you both. Forgive me…” She flushed again. “This is a little…”

“Unorthodox?” Salim offered playfully, brows rising, limber fingers running through his curls. The gesture was exactly like what Asra did when he was thinking deeply, struggling with a spell or deep in research. “Unexpected?” 

“Yes, all of that.” Iris said with a smile. Aisha took Iris’s hand in both of hers with a warm and gentle grip, squeezing softly. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Iris.” Her eyes glittered as new tears danced across her eyes. “I’m glad you’re here with Asra. Thank you for being at his side.” 

“Where is here?” Asra asked suddenly. “Is this your gate? Why was it chained away? Can you come home now?” The questions tumbled from him as more tears threatened to fall from his violet eyes; before Iris could stop herself, she brushed one away from his eyelashes, letting her palm come to rest on his cheek, thumb gently tracing his cheekbone. 

Aisha’s eyes darkened, and Salim’s face fell. “We can’t leave yet.” Salim explained. “There is so much to tell you. And I promise…” His eyes flitted to his partner’s. “We will explain, in due time.” 

“Our familiars are still lost to this realm.” Aisha muttered blackly. “When we were trapped here, they were separated from us. We need to find them.” 

Immediately, Iris felt the ache of her distance from Vasalisa; the image of her, her head on Muriel’s lap, whining dejectedly, struck Iris through with bleak, fathomless loneliness. At her side, Asra shifted; she knew he was recalling the horrible moment where Faust was trapped in the Devil’s claws, banished to the in-between. 

“Then we’ll help you find them.” Asra offered certainly, glancing down at Iris; she nodded, once, firmly.

She felt a little tug on her wrist; Aisha was turning her palm over in her hands, just as Asra had done moments before. Her gaze grew chilly, wary, before her eyes found Iris’s. “You tried to break them, didn’t you, Iris?” 

Iris drew a shaky breath. “Yes.” Asra’s grip tightened on her shoulder. “I’ve touched the Devil’s chains before, but they’ve never burned me like this.” 

Aisha tutted. “That’s because they weren’t your own.” From her wide sash, she procured a small bottle filled with what looked like black threads of moss. She crushed them between her fingers, quickly creating a paste that she slathered over Iris’s wounds; Iris thought her eyes would roll back into her head, the relief was so immediate and powerful. “We can grow so used to the pain of our own bondage that we cease to feel it.”Aisha murmured; she was massaging the salve into Iris’s hands now, her fingers strong, adroit. “But the bondage of others, well.” 

“The pain that eludes us can be so obvious to others.” Salim said gently. He was fishing something out of his pockets: four discs of metal, thinner than a fingernail but larger than his palm, connected with liquidy threads of quicksilver. “And it can hurt others more than we can ever imagine.” 

Asra chin trembled. “Is that...” He faltered. “Is that what happened?” 

Aisha’s hands fell away from Iris’s, wringing together nervously as she glanced to Salim; he nodded once, softly. She smiled at him, and Iris could see the affection in her eyes, the tenderness of his touch on her elbow, even after so many years. Aisha held out her hands, and an illusion crystallized between her fingers, black and wavering like smoke; the Devil’s bored eyes, his curved smile, the crown of horns that circled his head. Iris felt a gentle shiver wind down her spine, remembering his breath on her lips, his cruel claws around her neck, and she bit down the urge to vomit. 

“Asra, when you were young…” Aisha began, her voice wavering, “…We were summoned to the palace by the new Count, Lucio. Word had gotten to him of your father’s skill with alchemy and machina, the magical research I had been publishing; he wanted to commission your father and me to build him a prosthetic arm, unlike anything ever attempted before. Something he could control like flesh, that would move with him. His commission was obscene, and we had almost a year to complete it. So we toiled and slaved over this beautiful, hellish creation until finally, it worked.”

Salim’s eyes darkened. “When we presented it to Count Lucio, he was beside himself with glee. So besides himself that he threw us in his dungeons, to be executed in the morning. He wanted his arm to be one of a kind, so the world would behold him with wonder and bow to his power. He even threatened you, Asra. Said he would send solders to find you, have you executed alongside us.” 

Iris inhaled sharply, and Asra glowered. “Of course he did.” 

Aisha’s eyes were downcast, and far away. “Lucio was a barbarian and a brat, but he was smart enough to separate us. We were both strapped into chairs that sapped us of our magic, locked in the dungeons below the palace, and left to stew, alone, waiting for Death. That’s...that’s when the Devil approached us.” 

“He offered me a deal.” Salim squeezed Aisha’s arm gently. “If I went back with him to the realms, never to return earthside… he would free your mother, and protect you from Lucio’s wrath, Asra. I didn’t know…” 

“He didn’t know the Devil made the same offer to me, whispered to me in my dreams.” Aisha finished for him softly. “We didn’t know until it was far too late, and we were both imprisoned here.” 

“He tricked you.” Iris murmured softly. “The way he tricks everyone.” Beside her, Asra stiffened, his muscles tensing like a spring as his expression darkened. 

“How could you? After all you taught me about the Arcana… about the Devil’s honeyed words…” The anger bled from his voice, seeping like a wound. “I didn’t know what happened to you, whether you were dead or alive or worse. I…” Tears dripped down the bridge of his nose, but his lip curled. “I was a child!” 

“Asra…” Iris began, her voice soft, her hand swimming up his shoulder, but he jerked himself away softly, startling her. 

Aisha’s mouth opened, but a gust of dry, heavy wind huffed on them, filling their eyes and noses with dust. The golden door was still open, and the realm on the other side was whipping up into a storm, furious and dangerous. With a graceful gesture of Salim’s wrist, the door slammed shut. 

“We don’t have much time. He probably knows you’re here.” He murmured, and Aisha nodded, turning to Asra. 

“My child, we have enough regrets to fill an ocean. I am so, so sorry.” She turned her rueful gaze to Salim, who nodded solemnly beside her. 

“No apology can ever take away the pain you’ve been through.” He lamented. “And we can never make it right. But know…” His lower lip trembled. “We never stopped thinking of you, Asra. We held on to you, not knowing if you were…” He paused, inhaling softly. “All we have now is how we move forward.” He offered the discs in his hands to Asra and Iris; tin and lead, respectively. 

Iris took her disk; it sang with energy, with Salim’s magic. Asra hesitated, his fingers hovering over the disc before he accepted it from his father’s hand. Aisha took the disc of copper, and Iris’s eyes widened as the loop was closed, all four of their energy thrumming through the metal like electricity. 

“Asra… Iris… don’t resist it. Let it flow through you.” Aisha murmured, her eyes set and certain. Then the magic thundered through Iris, giving her vertigo and rattling her teeth as the ground underneath them quaked and shifted. 

From the clay sprung four enormous legs, many, many times larger than Iris herself; the legs groaned, stretched, and then rose up, pulling a shivering body with them out of the earth, lifting the four of them easily, like they were fleas on the back of a bear. It was an enormous magical construct, shaped like a bison, earth dangling from its stomach like shaggy fur, its head nearly the size of a house. 

The construct stuttered forward on its massive legs, and Iris felt her magic whip through her; then they were flying over the canyon in long, graceful strides, down its perilous paths, over the lavender fields into the evergreen forest. The gate whisked by so quickly that Iris felt her eyes water as the wind battered them. Asra’s hand slipped into hers, gripping tightly – she could see that his eyes were still steely with residual anger, and she gave him a gentle, tentative squeeze. 

Then, Salim shuddered, and Iris saw the sweat beading against his brow, his shoulders shaking; he looked up to Aisha, whose brow was furrowed with concern. He sighed quietly, and turned to Iris and Asra. “I’m sorry, this summons is powerful but… taxing…” 

The construct under them slowly, gently, shrank, legs sinking lower and lower and lower into the ground until Iris felt the earth firmly under her feet, the construct whispering away into the ether like a will-o-the-wisp. It had dropped them in the middle of the forest, damp and dark, smelling of loam and moss, shadowy and ominous. Iris felt Asra lean slightly closer to her as Salim collected the discs from them, stowing them safely away in his leather sash.

“We’ll have to continue on foot.” Aisha muttered softly, more to Salim than to Asra or Iris. “But I can sense Chimes and Flamel. They must be close.” She fell into the lead, climbing easily over the massive mushroom caps that blanketed the forest floor; Salim urged Asra and Iris ahead of him, bringing up the rear. 

“Have you been here before?” Iris asked Salim quietly, clairvoyance firing hotly. He met her eyes briefly, and she resisted the urge to look into him. 

“Yes. I’ve lost count how many times we’ve tried to reunite with our familiars.” He said softly. “The gate hasn’t been kind to us. Each time, there were new obstacles. New monsters to face. We weren’t always victorious in battling them.” 

Iris’s brow softened. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.” She whispered. “To be separated from your familiars for so long.”

“Do you have a familiar, Iris?” Salim asked; Iris realized that Asra got his quiet curiosity from him, the way his eyes danced just a little as he waited for her reply. She nodded. 

“I do. A wolf – her name is Vasalisa. She’s sweet and loyal, curious.” Iris said quietly. She felt another deep twinge of loneliness. 

“A wolf familiar.” Salim mused quietly. “That’s rare. The sign of a gentle, independent, spiritual magician. Compassionate.” 

Iris smiled weakly. “That’s interesting. Another magician we know – our friend – has a wolf familiar, Inanna.” 

“Our friend?” Salim asked, his eyes bright with something, something like hope. “Yours and Asra’s?” 

Iris smiled wistfully. “He’s Asra’s oldest friend. They…” She paused, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “They watched out for each other when they were growing up. They’ve been through a lot together. He’s shy, but he’s very kind. Protective.” 

Salim’s gaze fell. “I would love to meet him someday.” 

Iris smiled. “I think Asra would like that.” She said softly, glancing up at Asra’s back ahead of her. He still held her hand, tightly, fiercely, lifting her up through the treacherous roots and vines that crossed the forest floor, carefully tracking his mother’s back in front of them. 

Suddenly, Salim let out a soft gasp and leaned his weight against one of the massive conifers; Iris, panicked, turned to Asra and squeezed his hand in alarm. But Aisha already seemed to know, turning back, eyes wild with fear, as Salim’s breath grew ragged and he slumped further down the tree. 

“Salim!” She cried, rushing to him. “I knew that spell would expend too much energy.” She turned back to Iris and Asra. “We’ll need to rest.” 

“I just need a moment to catch my breath.” He murmured. “Don’t worry, my love –” 

His voice was strangled as his arm sank to the elbow into the bark of the tree like it was mud; Iris’s magic sparked on her fingertips as she extended her hand, ready for a fight, but Asra was quicker, ice coalescing around the bark of the tree, allowing Salim to wrench his arm free with a shatter of frozen splinters. 

The tree roared to life, wrenching itself upwards and ripping its roots out of the ground, taking a vaguely humanoid form – a massive, many-armed spriggan. Iris’s eyes grew wide as she stumbled back once, tripping over thick, scrambling vines; Asra caught her, his hands wrapping around her waist as he hauled her upright and away from the heavy branches that slammed into the ground, filling the air with knives of splinters. The spriggan’s branches sharpened into claws and wrapped around Salim, dragging him back into their clutches; Iris quickly formed a massive fireball and hurled it at the spriggan’s trunk, causing enough destruction to haul Salim away, behind her, Asra, and Aisha. 

Aisha sneered and hurled a spike of ice the size of Iris at the tree; it shuddered, staggering backwards, dark sap billowing from its wounds before it lumbered forward suddenly, one massive branch swinging forward over Iris and Asra. Iris shouldered Asra out of the way and the branch gouged down the length of her arm; she collapsed to the ground, crying out softly as acrid black sap seeped into her wound, rolling her eyes back into her head with pain. 

Asra’s eyes widened with horror as he saw her arm weep darkly with blood; his eyes glowed bright white and his toes lifted slightly off the ground as he levied several forms of ice towards the spriggan, freeing the largest branches before he grabbed Iris by the forearm, hauling her out of tree’s reach. 

“Iris, my heart, are you…” He couldn’t even finish his thought before Iris arched her back wildly and cried out; the sap was smoking against her skin now, and she felt like she was being burnt alive. Asra’s hands were trembling, trying to summon a healing spell, when Aisha’s voice rumbled through the air like the cry of a mother bear from the other side of the spriggan, followed by a sickening crash. 

“I can’t hold it off much longer!” She cried. “Asra, Iris – we need help!” 

“Iris is injured!” He called back, his voice high and tight. Iris placed a palm on his chest, over his heart, before casting a ward around herself, the edges of her vision blackening dangerously. 

“Go help them.” Iris muttered through clenched teeth. “I’ll be fine.” 

“No, I won’t –” Asra’s eyes were lambent with fear. “You’re hurt –” 

Iris’s grimace twisted, but she pushed him gently away. “You can heal me when that tree is firewood.” 

Asra hesitated only a moment before scrambling to his feet and rushing the spriggan, summoning a storm of ice shards that pierced and needled into the trunk from all angles, creating deep, smoking gouges; Iris’s eyes fluttered closed and she tried to block out the sounds of battle as her breathing deepened and she urged her muscles to relax. The pain was harrowing, whiting out her vision, almost as excruciating as the memories of those three days in the chapel of cedars, but it was slowly, slowly ebbing away as she sank deeper and deeper into herself. Nothing but a sensation. It would be over soon, like everything. 

Then the sound came – a shout, Asra’s, and a terrifying crash. Iris’s eyes flew open; he was fighting the spriggan on his own, snapping branches away with whips of water, staggering it backwards with howling gusts of icy wind. Just in the periphery, Aisha was wrenching an exhausted, collapsed Salim out of a tangle of roots and vines. But there were too many branches, the tree was too fast – one of the tree’s horrible claws closed around Asra’s waist and wound up to his neck, lifting him off his feet. 

“Asra!” Iris heard Aisha scream as Asra struggled, gripping madly at the branches that strangled him, but they wound around his arms, binding them back painfully. With an agonized groan, Iris rolled from her back to her stomach, crawling slowly towards Asra, the world blurring as fresh hell scorched through her, she would never reach him in time, she couldn’t focus her magic, she outstretched her hand to him, this couldn’t be it, her heart was hammering in her chest so hard she thought it might burst –

Like a tornado smashing out the windows of a house, like lighting a match to a drought-cracked field, Iris’s magic exploded out of her, but not into the air, no – Asra’s eyes glowed as white as the full moon, and with a terrifying, earsplitting cry from both of them, the spriggan froze completely solid as his body arced with both his and Iris’s magic. There was a shattering sound and the ice gave way under Asra’s weight, sending him tumbling to the ground, collapsing into a heap as he dry heaved, the crackling air racing painfully back into his lungs. 

Aisha rushed to him, eyes and mouth wide, rolling Asra onto his back. The battle had ripped open his billowing shirt, exposing his chest, but Iris was sure that the mark of the bargain would have been visible even through the fabric; it pulsated and stellated with each drum of his heart, exactly the same beat as hers pounding in her chest. 

Warm hands fell on her shoulders, gently urging her upright, and she raised her head weakly, her vision dimming – Salim, the same gorgeous eyes as Asra’s, ringed white with wonder, a halo of light reflecting through the bleak dark of the forest. “Iris… your hands…” He breathed, so softly she almost didn’t hear him.

Iris looked to her hand, still outstretched to Asra – a light glowed from it, blackly silhouetting her star-flung fingers. She turned her wrists slowly as her hands trembled; etched into both of her palms, over the blistering red burns, was a glowing mark of the bargain. 

There was a gasp; Aisha stared at Iris now, her hand behind Asra’s lolling head as she sat him up. “What… what did you do?” Her voice was small, and shattered.

Iris couldn’t answer. Her vision blanked, and she wilted in Salim’s strong arms. He smelled like Asra, Iris thought, woodsmoke and cinnamon, as the sweet collapse of sleep claimed her.

*******

Iris woke with her head in Asra’s lap as he absentmindedly stroked her hair; he, Aisha, and Salim were crowded around a small fire, their conversation soft and unintelligible, another language, low, liquid, guttural. She sat up suddenly, her vision spinning a little, as the memory of the battle with the spriggan arced through her. Her head split with pain, and she grunted, pressing her fingers into her third eye. 

Asra jumped, startled by her sudden movement. “Iris.” He murmured, his fingers on her chin, gently guiding her gaze to his. His eyes, lucid and vibrating with worry, searched her features. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? We were able to heal your arm, but we don’t know if the sap was poisonous or –” 

“I’m okay.” Iris muttered; the pain was quickly receding. “A little headache is all.” 

Asra’s expression dropped. “Did you regain a memory?” Salim’s eyes widened with alarm, and Aisha sat up a little straighter, brows furrowed with focus. 

Iris exhaled softly. “I didn’t tell you – I didn’t have a chance to.” Her eyes flitted quickly to Aisha and Salim, then back to Asra’s face, now etched with panic and confusion. “I regained them. All of them. The Moon gave them back to me. Then she sent me to find you, find you and Ilya.” 

Asra’s mouth fell open. “All of them?” He whispered urgently. “The plague? The fire? Your...” He swallowed heavily. Iris nodded, biting her lips together hard to keep the tears from falling. With a shaky, drawn-out gasp, he gathered Iris in his arms and embraced her, burying his face in her hair, pressing a kiss just above her ear. “My heart... I can hardly believe it...” 

Iris pressed her forehead into his neck, taking in his smell, warm, warm and lingering, before pulling away. She held his face in her hands, their foreheads pressed together, breath synced, hearts synced, before she turned her gaze to Asra’s parents, watching them carefully, disquieted. “You must have so many questions.” Iris said, her smile soft and bittersweet.

“That’s an understatement.” Aisha mused, two knuckles pressed to her lips in thought. “Perhaps we should start at the beginning. How did you get those marks?” 

Asra and Iris’s eyes met, uncertain. “I… this is the first time mine has shown itself.” Iris said softly, looking down at her palms, blooming open in her lap. “But it must be from my deal with the Devil. He gave me the power to protect the ones I love in exchange for…” Iris’s breath hitched. 

The sound Aisha made was both a gasp and an indignant cry. “ _You_ made a deal with the Devil?” 

“He deceived me, just as he deceived you.” Iris said evenly, though she could feel the tears, the still-raw anger, simmering up in her. “He exploited my fears. He knew them all, better than I knew them myself. Then he separated me from my body. That’s why we’re here, in the Arcane realms.” 

Salim’s brows furrowed. “He separated you from your body? Why? What would he want with your body?” 

Iris bit her lip, and glanced sidelong at Asra. “Because my body… wasn’t my body, the one I was born bound to. It was the Fool’s body.” 

Salim’s brows disappeared into his brown curls. “The _Fool’s_ body?” 

“ _The Arcana: Rituals, Summons, and Covenants._ ” Aisha said softly, her eyes narrowed. “ _Borrowing the Fool’s Body._ ” Her gaze fell to Asra, and memories flooded Iris of Selene’s acerbic gaze, penetrating and premonitory in the way only mothers can be. “It’s a rare book, but I remember having one in my research collection. And I remember that ritual. Elaborate, delicate, and extremely dangerous...for _everyone_ involved.” 

Asra’s eyes were downcast. “Several years after...” He paused, uncertain where to begin. “After you disappeared. A plague struck Vesuvia, a plague without a cure. It was brutal, wiping out most of the children and the elderly, and nearly a quarter of the adult population. It took us years to uncover the source: a red beetle, previously undocumented. It swarmed randomly, destroying crops and spreading disease. For nearly three years, Vesuvia was in a state of emergency.” He took a deep breath, shaky and pained. “I was summoned to work at the palace with doctors, researchers, and healers to find a cure, but not for the people of Vesuvia. To cure Lucio, who had contracted the plague.” 

Aisha snorted darkly, and Salim’s face fell in horror. Asra swallowed, steeling himself. “Iris worked at the palace, too. She was in Nadia’s – the Countess’s – household, as her Fool, part of her ladies-in-waiting, for more than a year. And she worked in the dungeons, doing research, apprenticed under one of the court doctors. But she contracted the plague, and eventually, she died.” Iris bit her lip hard and threaded her fingers through Asra’s, squeezing his hand softly; his grip was firm in hers, his hands shaking, as he continued. 

“I was… distraught, out of my mind with grief. In the midst of my mourning, Lucio approached me, looking for ways to gain a new body. Ilya – one of the court doctors – was able to keep him alive and in intense pain management, but he was dying. It was then that I found the ritual. I helped Lucio gather all the needed representatives, the resources, prepared the magic for it. And then I hijacked it, appealing to the Magician and the Fool for the Fool’s body. For… for Iris. I gave up half of my heart for her. To her.” His shoulders shook; he was crying. “And I appealed to Death, to let Iris return earthside. It… it was hell, ripping her soul from the gate with my bare hands, sewing her into a new body. She was in so much pain; she barely survived. _I_ barely survived.” 

The silence that followed was stagnant, stifling, as Aisha and Salim both blinked back their shock. It was Salim who spoke. “That still doesn’t answer why the Devil wants the Fool’s body.” 

Iris worried her lip for a moment. “We – Asra, Ilya and I – think the Devil wants to throne to the Fool’s body himself. Lucio… when the ritual for Lucio’s new body failed, and it instead throned to me, Lucio’s body was destroyed, leaving him in the in-between. He must have worked out some deal with the Devil then, something to solidify their affinity. Lucio was working with the Devil when he tricked me, and when I was separated from my body, it became Lucio’s. He walks earthside now.” 

“Death told us that he has been seeking to merge the arcane and earthside realms for thousands of years.” Asra said, his voice bleak. “If the Devil can take the Fool’s body through Lucio, he will have access to that future, to make it a reality. We learned of a ritual to do just that, to merge the Devil and Lucio, that will take place tonight earthside, in the palace.” Asra eyes betrayed his exhaustion when they drifted to Iris’s. “We were sent here. To prepare, to learn what we needed to learn to defeat him. But now…” His voice hitched. “We’re not even all together. Ilya… we don’t know where Ilya is…” 

Iris shushed him softly. “The Moon told me he was safe, my heart. Dreaming, just like you were. We’ll find him.” 

There was a soft sound, heart-wrenching and hushed; Aisha was furiously wiping tears away, her lips quivering. “Oh, Asra…” She mewed as Salim’s arm encircled her. “I… I had hoped… that you would never get tangled in the Devil’s chains, but here you are – in a far finer mess than your father and I are… you must have been in so much pain to –” She wept. “– to do something so desperate… I wish – I wish we could have been there to guide you…” 

The wind snapped through the trees, the tension shifting through the air like ozone; Iris, horrified, reached for Asra’s shoulder, but he shook her away, his gaze leveled accusingly at his parents. Aisha’s eyes shimmered with fresh tears. “Asra… that’s not what I meant…” 

“I know.” Asra said quietly. “But it’s true. If… if you had refused the Devil, stood up to Lucio… we could have lived as a family… I wouldn’t have spent… _years_ living on the streets, wondering why my parents abandoned me to die…” His fingertips were glowing, his magic seeping out of him. “I wouldn’t have starved, fought for my safety… cried myself to sleep wondering – wondering why…” 

Iris gasped when the first drop of rain struck her forehead, freezing cold and massive; suddenly, they were pummeled with it, extinguishing the fire into a feeble puff of gray smoke, soaking quickly through her clothing, leaving her shivering, but Asra was unmoved. “I was only… only 11, just a kid… I was alone in the world…” 

“Asra.” Iris entreated him as the wind whipped through her hair, the rain needling her skin. “You know they didn’t mean to abandon you, it was never… never your fault…” 

“If we could take it all back, my child, we would, we would.” Aisha wailed over the storm, struggling now to stand, Salim at her back, arched like a cat as he surveyed the storm with wide, wary eyes. She reached out for Asra, but he jerked back, stepping away from all of them. His eyes were glowing now, his palms turned towards the sky as lightning danced through it, death red and knife lavender and drowning blue.

“So when the one person… the one person I loved, who loved me in return, unconditionally… left this plane, there was nothing – nothing – I wouldn’t do to get her back. I was ready to march into the maw of Hell and sell myself to the Devil for her. I would… I would never abandon her… the way…” Behind him, lightning split a tall conifer tree, filling the world with scorched light, glittering off the freezing raindrops, before the thunder deafened them.

“Asra!” Iris cried, stepping forward, shielding her dazzled eyes. She had never, never seen him this angry. “We can’t change what happened. What if you never met Muriel, Nadia, Opal? What if you never met Ilya?” Her voice was practically lost in the wind, but still she approached him, outstretching her hands to him, her heart hammering. “What if you never met me?” 

“They abandoned me, too!” Asra’s voice was not his own, the howl of the wind itself, and Iris’s cloak flapped behind her like a sail, her skirts whipping wild around her hips as she braced herself against the gust. She felt two warm hands on her back, strengthening her: Aisha and Salim, contorting in the storm by her side. 

“Is that true, Asra?” Iris shouted. “Ilya was in the dungeons, dying of plague, trying to save everyone! Nadia was drowning in her sorrow and let you down, but she was doing the best she could! She wanted to help you, but she didn’t know how! Muriel… Muriel loves you! He let Lucio lock him up and use him as a plaything for three years, to keep you safe! And Opal… she died, Asra! She didn’t want to abandon you or me, but Death wanted her back!” Her hands were glowing, the mark threading its light into the squall, as she outstretched both hands to Asra. “And I died, too…”

It was then she saw the chains, black as oblivion and glimmering dully like the Devil’s bored eyes as they wrapped around Asra’s wrists and ankles, wrenching him painfully to the ground, but Asra’s back arched as the wind changed, blowing straight upward now, spiraling out above them as the sky turned a sick green, as the rain battered them in freezing sheets. Iris dropped down onto her knees in front of him, her glowing hands hovering over his heart, even as the storm threatened to tear her in two. 

“The way you’re feeling now, my heart…” She whispered. “No one can deny that of you; you’ve held onto this pain for a long, long time. But you know now, for certain. Your parents loved you; they loved you so much. They still love you. They need you to help free them, so they can be part of your life. Of our lives together.” She sobbed as the tears slipped down her cheeks. “But only if you forgive them. They hurt you, but if you don’t forgive them, you’ll just keep hurting. It’ll hurt you, but it will hurt them, too… and me, and Ilya… it won’t be easy my heart, but I’ll be here… I’ll be here holding your heart until I can’t anymore.” 

She touched him over his bare chest, his heartbeat roaring, and he arched violently as if he had been struck by lightning; the air warped, and the mark shined brighter than Iris had ever seen it under her fingers. Something frighteningly cold pressed into her palm, and she nearly wrenched her hand away, but her clairvoyance fired hotly and she grasped it, pulling hard. 

It was a hilt, formed perfectly to her fingers, wrapped in soft gray leather; the sword, metal singing softly as she unsheathed it from the ether, was like moonstone, a dull gray that absorbed the light. She stepped back, wielding it carefully with two hands; she had used knives, her athame, before, but she had never held a sword like this, almost the length of half her body, practically humming with power. But she knew what to do. 

She raised the sword over her head, and with one powerful stroke down, sliced through the chains that bound Asra. Their cries, the screeching of metal on metal as if they were alive, rushed past her ears as they dissolved into black smoke; Asra’s eyes immediately dimmed down to the soulful violet Iris loved, and the storm subsided as suddenly as summer thundershower. 

Asra blinked up at Iris, the imposing figure she struck, the sword’s blade inches from him, struck deep into the black, dense soil of the forest floor in front of him. “Iris…” He whispered. “What was that…?” She shook her head, still in shock. 

One of the hands on her back, achingly like Asra’s touch – Salim – rubbed gentle circles into her upper back, while Aisha was deftly forming a sheath for the sword at her other side. “That was some impressive magic, Iris.” Salim muttered. “I’ve never seen anything like that. Who taught you?” 

“Asra…” She stuttered, as Aisha handed her the sheath, impeccably wrought with matching storm gray leather and gleaming silver, helped her wrap it around her hips when her hands shook violently. It took Iris several clumsy, careful tries to sheath the sword, and it hung heavily, awkwardly at her hips, unbalancing her.

“I didn’t teach you that.” Asra said softly as he stood. He placed his hands on Iris’s cheeks and pressed their foreheads together, their breath syncing for a moment, before he turned to Aisha and Salim. “Mom, Dad… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… I know…” His voice cracked, making Iris ache, and he bit his trembling lip. “I know you never meant to… I-I mean… I forgive you…” 

“Oh, child…” Aisha whispered, opening her arms to him, and he collapsed into her embrace, tears rolling again down his cheeks. She was crying too, and Salim, his smile so broken and sad, wrapped his arms around both of them, pressing his cheek against Asra’s. “Of course we hurt you. Of course seeing us would reopen those wounds. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“It’s lucky Iris was here.” Salim murmured, his warm eyes flitting to Iris’s. “Who knows what would have happened if she hadn’t calmed you down.” 

Asra’s gaze burned bright with pride, with devotion, as he looked back at her. “I don’t know what I would do without her. Join us, my heart.” 

Aisha flashed Iris a welcoming smile, and opened her arm to her; tentatively, Iris sidled in between Asra and Aisha, resting her head on Asra’s shoulder as he pressed a soft kiss into her crown. They all smelled of rain, and Iris sighed contentedly as Asra hummed softly into her hair; she felt calm, truly calm, for the first time since she had entered the Moon’s realm of dreams. 

And then the earth below them split, revealing an angry red sulfurous cavern that swallowed them whole. Iris clung to Asra, the shock of the fall ripping the scream from her throat, but with a soft chime, their descent slowed; Aisha’s fingertips glowed soft purple when their toes tapped on the uneven igneous floor and they alighted gracefully. It was unbearably hot, as if the earth under them was alive and angry with the Devi’s searing, huffing breath.

“The gate is becoming unstable.” Aisha murmured. “He must know we’re close.” 

“We have to get to Chimes and Flamel.” Salim said with certainty. “We might not have much time.” He gestured for Iris and Asra to follow as the four of them set off through the cave. It was clear he knew the way. 

Aisha drifted at Iris’s side as they clambered over the uneven ground, her fingers lingering over the sheath of the sword that hung at Iris’s hip. “I’ve read of magicians who could summon ether knives, shadow bows.” She marveled. “There were even tales of a powerful Drakrian paladin who could summon a shamshir. But I’ve never heard of or seen anything like this. Then again, you’re not the average magician, are you, Iris? Coming back from the dead, bargaining with the Devil. Maybe this is the manifestation of that bargain.” 

Her eyes rose to Iris’s, and she felt the absolutely foreign sensation that she was being stripped bare by Aisha’s piercing gaze. Then Aisha blinked, and the feeling was gone; Iris gasped as the corners of Aisha’s mouth raised into a smile. 

“Did you just… are you clairvoyant?” Iris asked indignantly, her face flushing. “What did you see?” 

Aisha laughed, and at Iris’s other side, Asra chuckled. “It’s not as fun on the receiving end, is it, Iris?” He teased, a smirk creeping at the corners of his lips. 

“You’re clairvoyant too, Iris?” Aisha mused. “An exceptional woman, indeed. Tell me about Ilya.”

Both Iris and Asra startled, glancing, wide-eyed, at each other, before turning back to Aisha. “What about Ilya?” 

“He’s your lover, isn’t he?” She quipped, an impish grin that was Asra’s, all Asra’s, slipping across her beautiful features; Iris felt her breath hitch in her throat, and Asra blushed deeply, mortified. “He’s here in the realms with you.” 

Iris paused for a moment, searching for the words to describe Julian; Asra’s fingers wound between hers, squeezing gently. “Ilya is one of the gentlest men I’ve ever met.” He murmured softly, his eyes fluttering closed, a look of fondness washing over him even as his cheeks stayed flushed. “He can find the good in anyone, find a way to care about anyone. Just like Iris.” 

Iris’s heart surged. “He’s intelligent, hardworking, talented. A doctor. We met him when he was working with Asra to find the end to the plague. I apprenticed under him. He’s funny and sharp, and so sweet. He’s… he’s so perceptive, and so sensitive to the needs of others. To… almost to the detriment of his own needs.” She heard her voice quiver. “Sometimes I wish he’d be more selfish.” 

Aisha’s eyes were so warm, so proud, as she regarded them both. “When this is all over… I should love to meet him.” She said softly. 

Iris opened her mouth to respond, but the cavern suddenly echoed with the rattle of chains. Salim paused ahead of them, crouched so low he was practically on his knees, before he sprinted forward, Aisha scrambling to his side. Asra shot Iris a panicked look, and, hand-in-hand, they stumbled over the uneven turf, desperate to catch up. 

Then, they skidded to a halt; the cavern had narrowed and narrowed until almost all of them were slouching slightly so as to not bump their heads on the stalactites that hung low like savage teeth from the cavern’s ceiling. They were staring into a web of dull black chains that seemed to absorb all of the light, grinding against each other dissonantly. Through them, Iris could see nervous movement; two thick snakes, one golden yellow, one lavender like Faust, intertwined and slowly circling, their tongues flicking out erratically, agitated. 

Aisha took a hesitant step forward, but the chains lurched forward threateningly, and Salim hauled her back with a gentle tug on the crook of her elbow. “This as far as we’ve gotten before.” He muttered darkly. “And then the chains lash out.” 

“But you’ve broken these chains twice now.” Aisha finished for him, glancing sidelong at Iris, her finger resting thoughtfully on her chin. “And we can test my theory.” 

“Your theory?” Iris asked, brows rising. Aisha nodded, gesturing her closer. 

“You and Asra were able to break the chains on our gate. And you were able to break Asra’s chains just now. Asra, my child.” She glanced back at Asra. “You wanted to be freed of those bonds, did you not?” 

Asra blinked back his surprise. “I… I wasn’t thinking about the chains. I could hardly feel them. But I know… I didn’t want to feel the way I was feeling. I felt out of control. I was afraid I was going to hurt you all.”

Aisha’s eye flashed knowingly. “I’ve learned a little about the Devil and his tricks in the time we’ve been trapped here. He exploits love, attachment, and emotion like its weakness, using it to bind his victims into bondage. And then, that bondage saps them of their power, siphoning it off to him.” She placed both her hands on Iris’s shoulders, squaring her to the chains that warped in front of them. 

“We think the Devil bound us and our familiars here so he could tap into our magic, to empower himself.” Salim added darkly. “And the chains are difficult to break when you’re weakened, doubtful of your own power. Damn near impossible if you don’t know they’re there at all.” 

“But…” Aisha squeezed Iris shoulders fondly. “What if you wanted to be rid of your chains? What if someone offered a hand to help, and you took it?” She lowered her voice, whispering into Iris’s ear now. “We wanted to be freed. Asra wanted to be freed. Chimes, Flamel… they want to be free. Can you help them, Iris?” 

Iris took a deep breath, and stepped forward, her hand on the hilt of the sword. She drew it, slowly, deliberately, and even in the low, red light of the cavern, the gray of the blade glimmered, its gentle power thrumming through her. She sliced, just once, across the web of chains; they shuddered, screeched, and dropped away like bats, dissipating into scorched-smelling smoke. 

The grateful gasp that fell from Aisha’s lips nearly ripped Iris in two as Aisha fell to her knees, her hands outstretched as a golden blur raced towards her; Chimes wound up her sleeve into her shirt, shaking with happiness. Salim rushed forward and scooped up Flamel, who circled his shoulders, his tongue flickering across Salim’s skin as he stroked the snake’s purple head, cooing gently. 

Then all four of them embraced, Aisha’s eyes aglow with tears, Salim’s shoulders shaking. “We’re free… we’re finally free…” He whispered to her, gently stroking her smooth headwrap. 

Then the whole cavern trembled, and Iris, the sword still in her shaking hands, felt Asra’s strong hands on her shoulders as he wrenched her backwards and a massive stalactite crashed at their feet, exactly where she was standing. There was cacophony as the claustrophobic passage echoed with crumbling stone, and Iris fumbled to sheath her sword as Aisha shouted, “We’ll never make it out in time!” 

Salim gestured with both hands to the rocky floor of the cavern, his fingers spread and palms open; there was a horrible groan of metal as the earth bloomed and the golden door, its gears and apparatuses whirring, rose up. With another powerful gesture, the door flung open, revealing the swirling void. He turned to Iris and Asra, his hand on the door’s handle. 

“Go! Now!” He yelled, his voice sonorant over the din of the void, the devastating symphony of rock and dust. “Before we’re trapped! We’ll meet you on the other side.” 

“After you knock the Devil down a peg.” Aisha nearly growled, pulling Iris into a quick embrace, kissing her cheek. “We believe in you. In both of you.” She released Iris, pulling Asra into her arms as Salim wrapped one arm sidelong around her waist. 

“But we just found you, what if we –” Asra began, but Salim cut him off. 

“The Arcana didn’t bring you here to fail.” He said softly, placing his hand on Asra’s cheek. “We will see you again, my child.” His eyes were so warm as he looked at Asra, as if he were memorizing every detail. “You’ve grown into a fantastic magician, and an astonishing human being. We are so, so proud of you.” 

His eyes fell on Iris; she still couldn’t believe how exactly they were like Asra’s, down to the last streak of violet, of lavender, of blackberry dusk. “And you, Iris. Aisha and I couldn’t have dreamed of a better partner for our child.” He touched her cheek now, too, eyes glowing with adoration. “Please look after each other.”

Iris could only smile; she was afraid that if she spoke, she would cry, again. Her hand lingered on the doorframe, the inbetween pulling at the hem of her cloak, rustling her hair. She glanced back into the hopeful faces of Asra’s parents, her fingers winding between Asra’s, gripping tightly. Asra gave Aisha and Salim one last, forlorn glance over his shoulder. “I love you.” He whispered, more to himself than to anyone else, but it was swallowed as the collapse framed the golden faces that tumbled away from them, as he and Iris stepped over the threshold into oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: Sweet bb Asra. 
> 
> The last Moon is gonna be a doozy, friends. Get ready.
> 
> See you there.


	6. The Moon, Part 3: There's Nothing Not Worth Keeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Active Child - Hanging on**
> 
> _CW: Death and medical gore, body horror, killing, MCD referenced, drug use and excessive drinking, ambicon, intrusive thoughts, suicidal thoughts and ideation._
> 
> _If you are having thoughts of suicide, please talk to a mental health professional, call 1-800-273-8255 (if you’re in the US) or text 741741 (US), 686868 (Canada), or 85258 (UK). Click[here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines) for a more comprehensive list of suicide crisis lines around the world. _
> 
> _There are two graphic ambicon scenes in this chapter. The section that contains them will begin and end with *****. If you are triggered by this content, please speak to a mental health professional or a trusted ally, or call 1-800-656-4673 (US) OR 1-800-273-8255 (US). I believe you._

The odd thing about the void was you had no concept of speed, or direction, or orientation. Iris would have never described the motion they took as falling – she and Asra were floating, or drifting, or swimming, as they clung to each other, arms intertwined, fingers spidered desperately through cloth, over skin. Yet when the dream materialized from the ether’s fog and their backs hit the cobblestones, it was hard enough to split, to break the breath from their lungs.

They hacked feebly, their bodies curled into each others; dust, sand, grated against their lips, ground against their teeth, coated their skin in its oppressive crush, and the desert sun was relentless with mind-rotting heat even though it was still early morning. It was Asra who recovered first, his palm between Iris’s shoulderblades as he helped her sit up, her eyes watering, her head spinning. He blinked his pretty eyes as they adjusted against the glare; then he gasped quietly, horrified. 

“Iris...” He whispered, pulling her closer, his grip tightening on her shoulder. “What is this?” 

Iris lifted her eyes to their surroundings, and her heart nearly stopped, the hairs on her neck standing on end. They were in the Market district in Vesuvia, not far from their shop, but everything was caked with layers of ashy, oily dust, grayish-brown, the color of forgetting. Dried herbs and spells, totems for good health and protection, nearly unrecognizable with layers of grime, hung suspended over the doorways to homes, and the lantern to nearly every single shop was shrouded in white, wrapped over and over and over again. 

But these things hardly registered to Iris; she was staring at the bodies, wrapped in bedsheets, towels, loose gauze or linen, some with limbs flung above their heads, ashen, spiderwebbed skin cracked and raw at the knuckles, between the fingers, some with their gray faces showing, a final, feeble act of familial reverence. One of the bodies, just a child, a little girl with jet-black hair, still had her eyes open, the bloodied sclera still glittering, almost demonically. The worst, the worst part, was that Iris remembered this now. She remembered –

“Female. Aged 6 to 8. Throat slit.” An impossibly low voice reported. Asra and Iris jumped; four figures, two men, two women, emerged from the dust. They were cloaked entirely in black and wearing beaked plague masks, leather gloves, balaclavas, obscuring any and all distinguishing features. Behind the four of them were two bulky masked men dressed in brown, flanking a horse-bound cart absolutely laden with shrouded bodies. The man who spoke was kneeling to examine the girl’s body, one of the women writing feverishly in a blood-red book, recording every detail. “Time of onset, by the swelling –” He gulped. “Late last night.” He gently closed her eyes with his gloved hand.

“Mercy kill.” The woman said, her voice thin. The other man, tall and muscular, shook his head almost imperceptibly from the other side of the street as he knelt down next to another child’s body; knowing arced through Iris, and she felt Asra tense beside her, his grip on her almost bruising now. Julian. 

“This one, too.” He muttered; there was no doubt now, his normally raffish voice tired and forlorn. Iris’s stomach churned as he unwrapped the shroud of the body closest to her and Asra – a boy, not much older than the black-haired girl. His skin was the color of clay, his face and neck bloated. “Male. Aged 10 to 12. Poison. Onset: ...undetermined, by the swelling from the poison.” 

Iris squeezed Asra’s hand in hers, her breath spinning up hot and acidic in her throat. “These are Julian’s dreams. His wounds.” 

The woman behind Julian, taking notes in another blood-red book, spoke now, her voice soft and sonorant. “I don’t blame them.” Iris gasped audibly; it was her own voice. “Everyone knows what hell it is in the end. Spare the child the suffering.” 

Iris could almost see Julian’s downcast eyes, his pursed brow. “Have they lost all hope for a cure?” He murmured, almost to himself. 

The black-clad Iris’s body language softened; she placed her gloved hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “It’s been a year and a half, Ilya. A long time to survive on hope.” Julian laid his hand over Iris’s, their fingers intertwining tenderly for a moment. 

There was a gentle, polite cough from one of the body collectors; Julian straightened, stood, nodding once. The men descended, tossing the children’s bodies into the back of the cart with no more deference than if they were collecting garbage from the streets. Lead by Julian, the four doctors stepped over the pile to move to the next doorstep; then the air was split with a scream as the other woman yanked her long dress away. A hand, a white hand, the palm split and bleeding, clung pathetically to her hem. There was a moan, and one of the bodies stirred; Iris fought back the urge to scream as he lifted his face to them, his scarlet eyes squinting against the sunlight, the unrelenting dust. 

“Please…” He begged, his voice gurgling and thick with phlegm, with blood. He was looking straight at Julian; Iris could see his graceful hands, the hands she loved, tremble as their eyes locked. “Don’t… don’t let them take me to the palace…” 

Iris watched as Julian’s shaking fingers trailed down his hipbone to the knife hidden there; he hesitated, his shoulders slumped so far forward that he looked like he might crumple to the ground. But this Iris was quicker; she unsheathed the athame strapped over her leather pants, and, with one cursory glance at Julian, knelt beside the man, holding his hand as she skillfully slit his throat, as if she had done this many, many times before. And she had, Iris remembered darkly. Here on the street, where some would leave their dying rather than risk the rest of their families. Spare the very young or the very old from the torture of the dungeons. Even ending the suffering of patients when Valdemar deemed them unfit for further experimentation, rather than throwing them into the pit alive, as they were instructed to do. 

The body collectors said nothing, only hoisting the still-bleeding corpse into the cart. Iris didn’t even wipe her hands before she reached for the notched leather of the straps that held her mask in place, undoing them deftly. Julian outstretched his hand to her, a cry of warning forming in his throat, but Iris paid him no heed as she ripped the beaked mask off her face with bloodied, leathered hands. 

Silken strands of her long hair slipped through the buckles as she pulled the mask and the balaclava away; she shook out her hair, turning her face to Julian before opening her eyes, her full lips parted softly. The sclera were bright crimson, and trails of smeared bloody tears dripped off her jaw, down her nose as she regarded him. 

“There’s no point, my darling. Death will want us all back soon.” Iris whispered, gingerly touching her face with her gloved hands, leaving chilling twin smears of blood, her eyes never leaving Julian’s. Behind her, the other two apprentices were taking off their masks; Iris recognized the shorter, stouter woman as Amelie, her bobbed, curly hair bouncing; she would die within the week, and her wife, another apprentice, Thandiwe, would try to leave Vesuvia, only to be quarantined, never heard from again. The man was Syed, tall and spry, though not as tall as Julian; his entire family, his wife, his four young children, would succumb before Iris grew too sick to notice if he was dead or alive. Both of their eyes, too, were gleaming red. 

Julian stumbled backwards, falling hard on his backside, as Iris and the apprentices loomed over him, their faces cold and despondent as blood trailed down their faces. At their feet, the shrouded bodies lurched, the air now sick and alive with choked voices, moans and whimpers of pain, as gray hands reached out, clawing out of their shrouds, turning their bloodied eyes to Julian. 

“You failed us.” One voice accused loudly, shrilly – a woman, head wrapped in white, crusted with blood. Her red eyes were animal as she clutched two smaller shrouds to her breasts with shaking hands: her children. 

“Where is the cure?!” Another voice bellowed, a man, his skin sunk and waxen, clinging to his cheekbones like dough. 

One body crawled forward on their elbows and knees, and Iris reared back in terror; a teenaged girl with her hands cut off at the wrist, her red hair shorn roughly against her scalp. Her bleeding eyes rose to Julian’s; he stumbled to stand, to run, but graying, bony hands pulled him down painfully onto his knees, ripped off his mask – even with his face painted with terror, his mismatched eyes bright with tears, his mouth twisted into an inconsolable grimace, Iris felt a rush of relief to finally see his face. 

“Ilya!” She couldn’t help but call as the girl reached him, her face less than a meter from his. 

“He cut off my hands.” She whispered, her breath ragged. “My parents died, and there’s nothing to eat. My brother was starving; I tried to steal food for him. Is...” Her eyes filled with tears, her chest heaving. “Is he alive? Do you know? Is my little brother safe?” She wailed. 

Julian sobbed as he wrenched himself away from the hands that held him in place, with the sickening crack of brittle bones – he sprinted away, and Asra and Iris tore off after him, stumbling and staggering over the uneven street as his body sliced through the dust, unloosed from the withering crops, the clay drying out from the drought, mixed with the ash blown in from the Lazaret. But he couldn’t escape; the voices of the dead called to him as he ran. 

“You fucking coward!” 

“Run back to your ivory tower!” 

“Shiteating palace plaything!” 

“Useless!” 

“Worthless!” 

Julian stumbled, falling hard on his knees, clutching his wretched face in his hands, but then his pale skin was painted in gleaming scarlet. His hands were trembling so violently that he struggled to strip off his soaked leather gloves; his hands were dipped in red, the blood trailing down his wrist in luminous rivers, staining the bleach-white cuffs of his shirt. With a pitiful, defeated whimper, he collapsed to the ground, and the street melted away under Iris and Asra’s feet. 

*****The reds swirled with whites like blood spit into a sink, and the guest room materialized, its richly embroidered tapestries, lush rugs, beautiful wood furniture, silk sheets. This had always been a place of comfort for Iris, but the stark contrast with what they had just seen, the vulgar opulence – it turned her stomach.

The dream had placed Iris and Asra sitting at the head of the bed, on the snow-white pillows; she was cross-legged, with Asra coiled up next to her, his shoulder and thigh pressed against hers. Julian’s head rested on the crook of Iris’s legs, as if she were the pillow, his chin up and his neck long, his cheeks and chest flushed, biting his lips with bliss. He and a vision of Iris were making love, him on his back with her riding him, her head thrown back and her eyes closed as she fucked herself to ecstasy, her long hair swaying liquidly with each movement. 

His strong, elegant hands guided her movements; he had one foot planted on the bed so he could move easily with her, the other leg crooked, leaving space for Iris’s full hips. Iris and Asra could feel everything Julian was feeling, the wet, the warmth, the sweetness, the tight caress but also the delicious give. At her side, Iris heard Asra inhale sharply, quietly, the familiar feeling arousing him. 

But something was off, something was wrong, drawing up the shorn hairs on Iris's neck. Julian opened his eyes, cloudy with desire, to watch her move; then, with his lips parted around a soft moan of, “Oh, Iris, darling, _draga_...” He rolled his hips forward, changing the angle, the pressure of himself inside of her, the rub of their bodies together– an angle that Iris relished when they were in bed together. 

And then it was wrong, so wrong – too wet, too warm, too much give, like mud squelching through fingers, there was a wave of red washing over Julian hips, a trail of blood streaming from dream-Iris’s nostrils, the corners of her mouth, glittering against her eyelashes, and still she moved, grinding faster; Asra’s hand tightened around Iris’s knee, his eyes wide with shock, and Iris fought back the scream of clawing up her raw throat. 

In her lap, Julian’s face contorted, panicked, wretched, he was sobbing; he grabbed dream-Iris’s waist hard, as if to stop her, but her skin gave way in his hands like wet paper, gelatinous, blackened blood and putrefied flesh coming away like putty, his hands covered in viscera. 

“Iris, Iris, stop… darling…” He wept. “Please stop…” Iris and Asra could see the horrifying outline of his erection against dream-Iris’s decaying flesh, pressing through the quickly liquefying softness of her stomach. At this, dream-Iris flung her eyes open, her sclera red, her gaze sorrowful and cold; the room dissolved around them, and the tiny cell in the dungeons that served as Julian’s office appeared, the shale walls, the dank, damp smell of sickness, of death, and still she moved, grinding her hips hard and fast against Julian’s. 

“Isn’t this what you wanted, Ilya?” Dream-Iris whispered, her voice strained; blood was trailing from her eyes now, dripping off her chin, plastering her long hair to her cheeks. 

“No… no, it isn’t, darling, _draga moj,_ I…” He grimaced, trying to sit up, wrapping his shaking hands around her, attempting to unseat her, but dream-Iris shoved him down hard, leaving two bloody handprints on his chest. 

“Then why did you give me the plague, Ilya?” She asked with sad eyes, still moving, still riding him, now pinning him down while he sobbed. “Why did you let Lucy kill me?” 

“No, I… it wasn’t like that… I was trying to protect you…” He cried, his cheeks wet with tears, gray eyes frantic. Iris’s heart twisted, and beside her, she heard Asra’s voice catch brokenly in his throat.

“And did you, Ilya?” Iris asked quietly; with a squelch, his glans broke through the flesh of her pelvis, covered in blood, black and congealed like some macabre jelly. Her skin looked like it was melting now, peeling away from her face, her shoulders, her breasts, revealing the oozing darkness underneath. “Did you protect me?” 

He let out a heartbroken, animal wail, weeping in earnest now; Iris hesitated, then her hands slipped down to his shoulders, squeezing so gently. A little light came to his eyes, only the tiniest wish of warmth – and then the room gave way around them, dissolving into deep, vibrating burgundies, glimmering golds. 

Lucio lounged in one of the overstuffed armchairs, his head thrown back haughtily over the headrest, his knees spread lazily; he was wearing the short red robe, his wet hair dark and slick against his scalp. Julian hovered at his side, kneeling on one knee as he deftly plunged the needle into the taut, faintly purple vein that snaked up Lucio’s human arm. Iris’s stomach dropped, and Asra pulled her closer into his arms as Lucio’s eyes fluttered open, falling imperiously on Julian, the doctor’s gaze averted and downcast. 

“Your turn.” Lucio muttered softly, his cold metal hand softly tracing the slope of Julian’s arm through his loose white shirt, unbuttoned low against his sternum. Julian said nothing, only deftly changing the needle, refilling the glass syringe, before passing it to Lucio and dropping back onto his heels, offering his arm obediently. 

Lucio purred, pushing the sleeve of Julian’s shirt up, revealing the pale, muscled forearm, the flexing veins, the pocked scabs, barely visible if you weren’t looking for them, where the needle had found its mark before. Lucio wasted no time, flicking a vein with a golden finger so it stood at attention, before slipping the needle between Julian’s skin and dosing him. 

The room blurred, almost immediately – Iris felt her muscles relax, her eyes grow heavy and somehow wide, the way Julian must have felt as he let his head loll back on his shoulders, staring straight up at the ceiling, his eyes moonstruck, his graceful neck long, beautiful. 

Lucio huffed softly, almost affectionately, as he waited for Julian to settle, picking up the crystal of clear liquid at his side and sipping lazily. Julian’s eyelashes flutter closed, and his breath deepened long and low like the tides; it was a long, long moment before his stormy, mismatched eyes slowly shuddered open. Lucio reached forward to grab Julian’s chin, to pull him to him, but Julian recoiled, his brows furrowing and his eyes scrunching shut. 

Lucio tutted dangerously. “You’re always so tense, Jules.” He murmured. “Maybe we should try something different this time.” Julian’s eyes lazily drifted to Lucio, almost unseeing. He gave no answer, even as Lucio leaned forward, his lips brushing against Julian’s as they lingered over his skin, dancing up the sharp planes of his face to his ear. 

“Why don’t you imagine I’m you?” Lucio purred. “Imagine I’m you, and you… are the pretty fool.” He nipped hard at the lobe, and Julian gasped sharply. “Imagine all the things you want to do to her, your wildest, filthiest fantasies, the ones that would make her blush, make her scream your name.” His voice had dropped to a murmur, his cold metal fingers dragging down Julian’s arched neck. “Mmm… maybe I should have you tell me what you do to her, sometime… it’s not fair, you keeping that sweet ass all to yourself…”

But Julian was floating away on a warm sea, focusing on the image that formed in his head, spurred on by Lucio’s words; there was a soft, disapproving sound, heavy and mellisonant, stirring Julian to his core, and his gaze snapped back to the chair. 

The same red robe falling open, the same blonde hair, slicked back, fragrant and wet from the bath, thick, dark arches against a well-formed brow, the same imperious pose, one foot bouncing impatiently. But sweet, delicious breasts swelled against the red satin, and the thick, pillowy pink lips twisted into a playful smirk were not Lucio’s, twin sets of little dimples popping against round cheeks as indigo eyes watched him fondly. Dream-Iris smiled now, the pad of one finger pulling down her lower lip at the corner, exposing the tiniest sliver of straight, white teeth. 

“Gorgeous.” She whispered softly, her voice low and sweet. “You’re so fucking hot, Jules.” The hand that wasn’t playing with her own mouth softly traced his lips, parted with need, before her metal-cool touch sloped up his cheekbones to his hair, wrapping tight, jerking his neck back from the nape. He moaned openly, want streaking through his hips, his groin, as Dream-Iris lifted one of her legs up, planting her foot on the seat of the armchair, her robe falling away, revealing her blushing sex; she was already wet, dewy and inviting, as she roughly dragged Julian forward, guiding him to her. 

With a groan, Julian sank into her, his tongue parting her as she rolled her hips forward towards him, grunting softly as he found the place just below her clit, licking upward with a flicking motion. She rewarded him with a scrape of her long, manicured fingers against his scalp; he wound his skilled hands under her soft thighs, skin so silky and warm, as he guided her closer to the edge of the chair, as he pressed more firmly into her. She lowed softly, with a chuckle, as she carded her other hand through his hair. 

He choked, tears springing into his eyes, even as his tongue flitted forward, diving deep into Dream-Iris’s heat; she arched her back and moaned softly, her lidded eyes meeting his as she watched him pleasure her. “You love this, don’t you?” She murmured; the sound of her voice, throaty and salacious, nearly burst his heart, nearly made him come then and there. “Kneeling in front of me… doing as I say… being a good boy… you’re _such_ a… a good boy…” Her breath hitched in her throat as she threw her head back against the back of the armchair, her hips pumping forward, and he choked again, violently, his tongue laving her hard and fast. 

Dream-Iris groaned, long and loud, as he increased his pace; she rolled her hips against his face, guiding his movements, one hand still roughly wound through his hair, the other snaking up her own body, her navel, her breasts, her neck, to her hair, writhing through her own wet strands as she found purchase, grabbing tightly. 

She arched her back, inhaling heavily through gritted teeth – her hips were stuttering erratically now, Julian knew she was close, the way she furrowed her brows, scrunched up her eyes in concentration; then she yanked him upwards by his hair, drawing a soft grunt, both pain and pleasure, from him. “And so eager to please…” She moaned shakily. “You’d suck me bone dry if I let you, wouldn’t you, Jules?” 

Her eyes flitted down his body, her open, panting mouth curling into a devious grin. “Strip for me.” Iris’s stomach turned, her heart hammering in her throat, Asra’s the same under her fingertips as they clung to each other, unable to speak, unable to escape, unable to look away.

Julian’s hazy eyes didn’t break eye contact with Dream-Iris’s as he slowly undid the buttons of his blouse and peeled the slinky cotton from his shoulders like ritual, revealing his broad, muscled shoulders, the lightly freckled skin of his chest, the dense dark hair. He stood gracefully, the shirt sinking down around his waist, his hips, to the floor. His low leather boots were next – he planted one foot on the arm of the chair, his impossibly long, svelte legs framing Dream-Iris in, but she bit her lip greedily, her eyes narrowed with amusement as she watched clever but tremulous fingers carefully unbuckle each buckle, slip the boot and sock off of his well-formed arch. 

“Does Iris strip for you like this?” She growled softly, her head lolling back lazily as Julian turned to his other boot. “Does she let you look at every inch of her body, every dimple, every freckle, every secret?” She reached up to drag her cold fingers down hand his chest as Julian drew himself to his full height, pushing his thumbs into the waistband of his soft drawstring pants, striking a silhouette that would have driven Iris wild if it weren’t for the despondent blankness that clouded his eyes. “Does she shake her little ass for you, present herself to you with her legs spread, begging you to ravage her? I bet she has the prettiest pussy, plush and rosy and-and tight…” The pants fell to the floor with a whisper, and dream-Iris hummed with satisfaction. “But you’d rather be the ravaged one, wouldn’t you, Jules?”

She pulled Julian into her lap with surprising strength so he straddled her hips. She smiled wickedly as she peeled her robe from her shoulders – her body was crossed with thick black leather straps, the softness of her breasts and belly caged and bulging against their restraints. Buckled to her mound was a red rubber dildo, thick and curved, and Julian shuddered, moaning achingly at the sight of it. 

Dream-Iris chuckled darkly, her eyes lidded as she reached for the dram on the table beside them, pouring thick oil on the fingers of both hands. With one hand, she stroked the place between his legs, running two fingers up and down his perineum before massaging his anus skillfully; with the other, she languidly stroked his cock, lips spreading to a wide grin as Julian whimpered feebly. 

“Relax, Jules.” She simpered viciously. “Why resist? You love this, you’re so fucking hard… are you thinking about the pretty fool?” Dream-Iris pressed a finger inside him, squeezing his cock hard, and he arched, panting and grimacing. “Does she let you fuck her here? Does she touch you like I do? Or does she leave you wanting more?” She pumped, quickly and roughly, before pushing another finger in, making Iris sob and curl into Asra, his arms wrapping protectively around her shoulders, her head, but they both couldn’t look away, even as the tears dripped down both their cheeks. “I never leave you unsatisfied, do I, Jules? Unless… that’s what you want, what you beg for…” 

Dream-Iris ripped her hand away from his cock and relinquished her fingers from inside of him; Julian whined brokenly, even as she guided his hips down onto hers. She ground up into him slowly, teasingly once, twice, before she reached down and squared up, pressing the blunt head of the slicked dildo against him. “Beg for it, Jules.” She growled through her pursed lips, her eyes cold and predatory. 

He bit his lip, and something like a sob rose from his throat, before he whispered, “P-please… I… I need it… L-Lucio, please…” 

“Beautiful, Jules, so good…” Dream-Iris murmured, and thrust up into him. 

_Pathetic._ A voice, husky and brusque, ran down Iris’s spine like a spell, not something she heard with her ears. Like a blink, a rend in the fabric of the Universe, a figure of Julian was now lounging across the back of the armchair, body long and stretched as he leaned on one hand, one foot crossed over his knee, a half-full bottle of spiced rum resting against his thigh. He was dressed in a sharp suit of pitch black, lips raised in disgust as both his bloody eyes watched his double writhe and rock his hips over the cock he was riding. Asra’s fingers in Iris’s hair tightened; he could see it, too.

Julian blinked his eyes open, unable to stifle the wanton sounds of pleasure that spilled from his throat, but he flushed even deeper when he saw the figure of himself, meeting his gaze bashfully. _Moaning like a bitch in heat for the man who makes your life a living hell. For the man who would rape and kill Iris the moment he had the chance._ The double took a deep swig from the spiced rum, the liquid splashing in the bottle like the sound of glass shattering. _The worst part is, you like it. You live for it._ His sneer widened and he grimaced as the alcohol burned down his throat. _You're a monster. You disgust me._

Julian closed his eyes, ashamed, so ashamed, as release already seized him, choked him, but the figure held firm, watching dispassionately, as the scene slipped from Iris and Asra… *****

The light was so low and the room so deadly still that it took Iris’s eyes a moment to adjust: the flat above the shop, none of the candles or lanterns lit to ward off the gloom of night. It was cooler, the air fragrant with marigolds, mums, and ripening oranges; even so late, the sounds of the market rustled gently up through the windows, the gauzy curtains flung open to beckon the autumn breeze in. 

Below them, Iris could hear the quiet rustle of business in the shop; pleasantries exchanged, the gentle squeak of glass on wood, erratic footfalls, the old floors creaking sweetly. Then, the firm latch of the front door, the staccato, syncopated triplets of the locks clicking shut; there was a sharp movement in the corner of Iris’s eye, sudden but sleepy, like a daydreamer jolted from their reverie – the four-poster bed, nestled into the bay window directly over the reading room. Before Iris’s eyes could adjust to the shapes she saw there, footsteps echoed up the curved wooden stairs, steady and measured, almost teasingly slow. 

Then, a soft, muffled moan shot through Iris like practiced fingers running down her spine just as Asra’s face appeared on the landing; he was holding a glowing orb of soft orange, like candlelight, warming his amber skin and casting soft, dancing shadows and little bands of gold through his curls. His expression was absolutely wicked in its nonchalance as his gaze fell to the bed, as he unwound the scarf from his neck, tossing it without ceremony on the blue velvet dressing chair in the corner. 

“You’ve been good, Ilya.” He observed, his voice casual. “I think this is the quietest you’ve ever been for me.” 

He snapped his fingers; every candle and lantern in the flat sputtered to life, casting smooth sunset light over the room. The light illuminated the bed, where Ilya lay prone, naked and supine, his wrists and ankles each tied to a corner of the bedpost, a silken scarf wound through his mouth, another around his eyes. At the sound of Asra’s voice, his cock throbbed against his stomach, dully red and neglected, the tip soaked with leak. 

“No.” Asra whispered in Iris’s ear, his voice strained as his hands trembled against her skin. Iris turned to him; his face was ashen, his eyes wide. 

The dream-Asra hummed softly as he easily stripped off his dark blue shirt and climbed into the bed, pressing his clothed knee between Julian’s legs; at the feeling of weight on the mattress, warm silk brushing against tender, desperate skin, Julian groaned formlessly, throwing his head back against the pillows. “What should your reward be, Ilya?” Asra cooed, softly dragging his fingertips over the sensitive but defined place where Julian’s hips hinged; Julian practically lit up at the touch, his back arching, his cock twitching, another muffled moan filling the little flat. “You waited so long while I minded the shop after dinner… it seems unfair to make you wait any longer…” Asra groped the muscled slope of the inside of Julian’s thigh before slapping it lightly. “But you’re so fun to tease…” 

Julian grunted; this time, it was different, almost pained, and Asra’s eyebrows raised slowly. “Do you have something to say, Ilya?” He murmured, his silk pants slinking over Julian’s erection as he crawled forward, pressing his bare chest to Julian’s as he lazily traced the scarves that blinded and gagged him. “I won’t lie, I’m enjoying the quiet, but… you can choose one. The blindfold, or the gag.” 

Julian feebly held up two long fingers, wrist straining against the leather binds; Asra chuckled softly. “Of course.” His deft fingers roughly unwound the gag, and Julian gasped softly, the cool night air rushing unhindered into his lungs. 

“Asra-a…” He whimpered feebly. “Please… it h-hurts…” 

Asra’s laughter was low and roguish, bordering on cruel. “Have you been hard this whole time, honey?” He leaned heavily onto his elbow, his bare chest still pressed against Julian’s, as he dragged his nails down Julian’s heaving chest. “No wonder you’re so desperate…” 

“Please, Asra, _med_ , master, please… I’ve been good… I tried to be quiet…” Julian plead, his mouth wide and panting. He inhaled sharply, brokenly, as Asra’s warm palm finally, finally, closed around the base of his erection. 

“Only because you begged so beautifully.” Asra purred, before arching back like a cat until he was positioned between Julian’s legs. “But stay quiet for me. Can you do that, Ilya?” He didn’t even wait for the answer before guiding the tip expertly into his mouth, sucking it all the way down in one skilled, fluid motion. 

Julian’s stomach seized with shock, with relief, and the gasp that escaped him was choked, half-suppressed. He tried to heed Asra, chuckling as he gently scraped his teeth along Julian’s length, pulling back slowly before sinking back down hard, taking Julian’s cock even deeper in his throat. 

Julian’s mouth was drawn slack, soundless, even as he bucked his hips against Asra’s lips; with an amused grunt, Asra firmly pressed Julian’s pelvis down into the bed as he set his pace, tortuously lazy, his teeth, his tongue, his lips trailing against the feverish skin. Julian strained against his fetters, the warm leather digging into his raw, chafed skin, as he arched his back wildly now, his shapely, pale shoulders spasming as he grunted feebly, rhythmically with each of Asra’s movements. 

Asra moaned softly, his eyelids fluttering closed as he pleased Julian, but the scene warped, sparkling; instead of Asra laying between Julian’s legs, the sinuous muscles of his honeyed back flexing, it was Iris, nude, her pillowy ass in full view, her ankles crossed leisurely in the air behind her, her beige skin smooth and soft. But her features were blurred, her eyes colorless, sightless as she looked up adoringly at Julian, her lips, puffy and rosy around him, bleeding into her skin like she had been smudged, her edges shimmering, formless, ethereal. Her voice was distorted, small, tinny, as she groaned deeply, choked on his cock, her nose buried in a thick carpet of dark, auburn hair. 

Julian threw his head back and panted, his hips stuttering dangerously, his breath growing shallow and desperate, even as Iris and Asra saw his brow furrow, saw his features contort with confusion and pain, just like the first night he and Iris fucked, when she called him by the name that fell so easily from her lips now. Iris hummed one last time, long, low, loud, as if his cock was all she ever wanted in her mouth, and Julian snapped. 

“Fuck, _fuck,_ I-I… I love you, darling, I love you, I love you…” He cried into the dark as he came, hot and fast and sudden. “Oh, Gods, do I love you…” 

The air in the room shifted palpably; it was Asra now, his eyes both confused and ice-cold as he swallowed Julian’s cum. He didn’t linger, releasing Julian unceremoniously while simultaneously unloosing his restraints with magic; he practically bolted out of the bed, crossing the little flat in fast, heavy strides to the water closet, where they could hear the water from the old pipes running softly. 

Julian was still panting quietly, little beads of sweat shimmering on his temples, across his collarbones, as he ripped the blindfold from his eyes and sat up, his legs still spread and shaking. Asra returned from the water closet, rubbing his mouth roughly with the back of his hand in something close to disgust as he tossed a towel roughly into Julian’s lap. 

“Clean yourself up, then get out.” He growled, and Iris nearly jumped; she had only ever heard him use that tone of voice with someone he loathed, Lucio, the Devil…

Julian’s mismatched eyes watched Asra with pure desperation, confusion, as the magician turned his back to him, fiddling pointedly with the kettle, snapping the hearth ablaze. “Y… you didn’t come…” He stammered, dazed. 

“I don’t want you to make me come, Ilya.” Asra replied, voice dangerously even. “I want you to leave.” 

Julian’s brows furrowed with sorrow, his lips parting. “I… I’m sorry, I don’t know… I don’t know why I said it…” 

Asra slammed down the kettle so sharply, so loudly, that Iris, Asra, and Julian all jumped; Iris glanced at the Asra in her arms, the one who clung to her, who had buried his face into her neck, his face hot with shame – he was shaking. The Asra who turned to Julian was savage in his contempt, his lip curled into a snarl, his eyes dull.

“I will never love you, Ilya.” He said so quietly, so certainly, that it stung. “And I don’t want your love, either. I never did.” He paused, took a deep breath; Iris could see the delicate tremor in his fingers. “Now, kindly, get out.” 

“Asra –” Julian’s voice was hardly a whimper, but Asra didn’t let him finish. 

“This means nothing to me, Ilya.” He said, his voice firm, even in its softness. “Just sex. Nothing more. You know the rules. If you can’t handle that, then this needs to end.” 

Julian’s looked as if he was going to say something, his mouth open slightly, the soft inhale, but with a shuddering sigh, he stood. He gathered his things, his leggings by the bed, his shirt thrown over the table, his tall boots by the doorframe, as Asra turned back to the kettle, unmoved, but unmoving, his hands wrapped tightly around the kettle, shaking slightly. Julian parted the heavy curtain to the stairwell and descended. 

He didn’t make it far before his knees wobbled, and he buckled, pressing a shoulder heavily into the whitewashed wall as he stifled a sob, face crumbling pitifully. A soft, incisive laugh echoed through the three of them; lounging on the widest winder step was the black-suited double, his bloody eyes meeting Julian’s with something like sick amusement. 

_And you thought he might love you._ He smirked coolly. _But how could he love a useless, fucked up monster like you? Idiot._ He took a long pull from the bottle, the sibilant ring deafening as the dream changed again...

A forest, smoke-dark and hazy, Asra and Iris sunk to their waists in tepid warm water; rotting black roots curled and caressed their sides, searching gently for something to hold onto, mangrove trees twisting up out of the swamp like the burnt bones of the dead. It reminded Iris of the Hanged Man’s swamp, but that realm was teeming with life, with the sounds of birds and insects and frogs, but here it was unearthly still, the sky a soft, sick green tinged with gray. The only sound was a man’s voice, far away, singing quietly, the words half-formed and slurred. Iris’s heart jumped as her ears perked towards the sound; she would recognize it anywhere. Julian. 

_“Get on with it...”_

Asra, at her side, still shaking, took her hand and forged the way, plowing through the mucus-thick water, fetid and stagnant with mottled gray algae. For a moment, they were silent, the raw singing growing louder and louder, until Asra spoke softly, not meeting her gaze. 

_“Put off the fuss, you chickenshit...”_

“I didn’t know it was you he was seeing.” Asra murmured, almost unintelligibly, his cheeks bright. 

Iris shushed him softly, squeezing his hand as he swiped away a low-hanging vine, but he turned back to her, his eyes imploring. “I’m not you, Iris.” He whispered. “I was already carrying two broken loves. I didn’t have room for another. The strength for another.” 

Iris’s heart leapt into her throat at the naked anguish on his face. “My heart. My sweet heart.” She cooed, placing both her hands on his cheeks, pressing her forehead to his, staring into his welling eyes. “You kept him alive, and his heart is so big, so good. He’ll forgive you.” 

“Will he?” Asra muttered. “I hurt him, Iris. This… this dream… I – I couldn’t...” His voice broke, lip trembling. Iris stroked his cheek, a low hum in her throat. 

“I know he will, Asra.” She pulled him into her arms, her lips against his ear. “You were hurting, too; it was too much. And, in the end… it’s not true. You love him. It wouldn’t hurt this much if you didn’t.” 

He wrapped his arm around her waist, almost uncertainly, before sinking into her embrace, pressing his lips against her neck, inhaling deeply. Then, just as abruptly, he pulled away, snapping to attention as the singing grew louder, drunker, more insistent. 

_“Old Scratch has dealt us a dirty hand...”_

The water rippled around them, and there was a soft splash; Asra and Iris rushed forward, clawing through the dense vines and roots, until they stumbled into something like a clearing. Iris gasped; it was the mother tree, the one she had seen in her dreams just a few nights ago, her massive, hoary, ash-white trunk, her branches dark and dead, her thick roots spongy and foul-smelling. 

Julian, their sweet Julian, was pulling himself out of the mire, soaked to the bone in his flung-open shirt, his leggings, his bare arms and hands covered in angry red marks, his murderer’s brand stark against his pale skin. His soft eyes were unfocused with drink, with dope, as he scrambled to right himself on a rotten root, soft and squelching under his fingers. In his hand, despite his tumble, was a bottle of spiced rum, far too much of it drunk.

The soft laugh, judgmental and nonchalant; Julian’s double, his shadow, ran his fingers through his hair drunkenly as he reclined on a thick, twisted root and took another pull from the bottle in his other hand. They were practically mirror images of each other now, the shadow in black, Julian in white and gray. _You’re a failure. A coward, a drunk, an addict. Unlovable, insufferable, irredeemable. A monster._ He whispered, his ruby red eyes fixed on Julian’s now as he struggled to stay upright. _Everyone is dead, or gone, or hates you._

He let the back of his head thud heavily against the trunk of the tree, his eyes trailing knowingly upwards. Julian’s blurring eyes tracked his gaze; in his stupor, all he could do is gape as he clutched to his handholds, barely keeping himself upright. 

From each branch of the tree, a body hung spinning and rigid from a noose, eyes scarlet and faces bloodied. Nadia, her long tyrian hair lank and swaying in the wind, her elegant clothes stained with trails of crimson. Mazelinka, her expressive features sagging, her normally animated hands stiff, still clutching the wooden spoon. Aster, Dara, side-by-side, Aster’s mouth wide, the gap in her teeth visible even from this distance, the angle of her neck impossible and painful. Nazali, their headscarf gone, their waxcloth doctor’s cloak looking as if it had been dipped in red. Portia, eyes wide with surprise, her body impossibly small. Asra, his achingly beautiful face sunken, waxen, ashen, his eyes dull and dark. 

The shadow’s head rolled on his neck, his smile sick and swimming. _“Get on with it...”_ He sang, voice warm, almost comforting. 

Julian’s eyes were trained on the body hanging directly in front of them; long blonde hair flowing liquidly down the arched back, fresh blood streaming down the shapely legs, dripping off of elegant hands and pointed feet, the soft naked belly split with a y-incision, innards spilling out, glistening and dangling. Iris’s neck hung at a twisted angle, her eyes open and unseeing, crimson, crimson, her lips softly parted in protest.

_“Get on with it...”_

Julian slumped forward, his shoulders shaking with sobs, his face wretched and twisted, and the dream changed yet again...

Julian sat hunched over his desk in the dungeons, his long fingers carded through his dirty, unkempt hair as he rested his weight heavily on his elbow, scratching away furiously at his notebook with a night-black feather quill. There was only one lantern, flickering feebly in the dank and oily darkness only a few centimeters away from him, his sleepless, bloodshot eyes betraying his bone-deep exhaustion, his pallid skin glistening with a sheen of feverish sweat. He sighed heavily, his head shifting slightly against his palm so his thumb and baby finger were pressed against his temples, his dark, long eyelashes fluttering with oscillating, vibrating pain. 

Then, there was the starchy rustling of sheets, feeble, wet coughing; Julian jumped, turning in one graceful movement to the cot behind him, kneeling down besides Iris as she hacked, her body coiled up in desperate pain. She was sweating profusely, her long hair, braided back messily, was plastered against her forehead, and the cotton shirt and pants she wore for sleep were soaked through in the chest, the back. Julian cooed softly, smoothing away a drenched tendril of hair, as he wrapped his arms around her back, softly grasping the shoulder, the other hand wiping away the bile that had settled on her arm as he laid her gently back down into the bed. 

“You’re awake...” He whispered fondly, warmly; he resisted pressing his lips into hers. She clutched weakly at his shirt and gasped with terror, meeting his gaze with her sanguine eyes. 

“Sshhh… you’re okay…” He murmured, tucking the blankets in around her as her lips trembled and she shivered. “It’s the morphine. The dreams can be a real bitch.” 

She huffed softly, something like a half-hearted laugh. “Better than the alternative.” She said quietly, her eyes slowly dilating, adjusting to the gloom as she sank back into the sheets, curling up to preserve her warmth. 

“That’s my girl.” Julian whispered softly, the slightest crack splintering his voice as his gloved fingers traced the gaunt slope of her cheek down to her jaw. He gazed lovingly at her for a moment before he reached back to the desk, his long body bowing with the slight stretch, retrieving a tray of broth, tea, and water. He offered her the tea first, gently placing the lip of the mug to her lips, urging her to drink slowly, carefully. 

They were silent, the only sound in the little dungeon room Iris’s ragged breaths, her clumsy gulps. He smoothed down her hair with a tender gesture after she pulled away. “Good, Iris.” He cooed, setting the tea down. “Are you hungry?” 

She shook her head weakly, her eyes closing. “What time is it, Ilya?” 

Julian swallowed heavily, and his shoulders trembled, his eyes darkening; Iris and Asra realized that, for a horrible moment, he’d allowed himself to hope. “What good will it do, _draga?_ ” 

“Please.” Iris pleaded, her voice pitiful.

Julian’s lips crumpled, but he spoke evenly. “It’s mid-afternoon. The sun will set in a couple of hours.” 

Iris looked up at him through her eyelashes; tears were pricking at her bloody eyes, too. “That’s all we have left, then. A couple of hours.” 

“Iris, darling, we don’t know, you could… some people live for weeks, for months, old and young, weak and strong, female and male, it seems completely random…” Julian was babbling, and Iris placed a trembling finger on his lips. 

“Then I’ll have weeks and months more with you, Ilya. But that’s not a gamble I’m willing to take.” She ran a thumb softly over the leather that cloaked his wrists. “Will you take these off for me?” 

“You asked me to wear them.” Julian murmured. “Are you sure?” 

Iris responded by tugging gently at the fingertips of his gloves, slowly dragging them off of his fingers, his palms; then she intertwined her fingers in his, their hands framing her face as she leaned back down in the bed. Julian leaned forward, his body hovering over Iris’s, as he kissed her brow, her temples, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. He ached to kiss her chapped and cracked lips, still so plush and inviting, parted just for him, but he restrained himself with every fiber of his being, pressing his lips instead into her hair, inhaling her scent deeply, her lingering iris-and-lily scented perfume, the deep, human smell of her scalp. 

She pressed her burning forehead into his muscled neck, humming contentedly as she exhaled slowly. “I love you, Ilya.” She murmured against his hot skin. “I love you. I love you.” He felt her eyelashes flutter against him, her fingertips dragging down his hands; suddenly, she jerked, her brows furrowed. Her skilled hands grabbed one of his, the left, pulling the fingers apart before the haze of her embrace left him, her brows furrowed with focus. She was staring at the tiny scab in the web of his fingers between the brother and the sister, just beginning to finally heal. 

With a soft gasp, he jerked his hand away, but her eyes, accusing even in their crimson, darted up to his. “How long?” She asked softly, her sweet, low voice wavering, quickening. 

“Iris… please…” He began, his lips trembling, but she cut him off. 

“Answer me.” She stammered, her voice rising now. Julian quivered; he was painfully aware of the thick sweat on his brow, his dilated eyes, the way his hands trembled as he pulled them away from her. “You never stopped, did you?” 

His head was slung low between his slumped shoulders; he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Iris…it – I never meant to hide it from you…” 

“Hide what from me? This?” Iris asked, her voice weak, streaked with pain; they saw Julian’s face contort, twist. “Or something else?” She was digging her nails desperately into his hands now, perhaps hardly aware that she was clinging to him, to her idealized version of him, her false idol; a hot puff of breath, a snort, slid over his shoulder, unwelcome. The double, the horrible, demon-eyed double, was smirking, cackling, at his side, his legs stretched long on the bed behind him as he pressed his back into Julian’s, his neck flung long over Julian’s shoulder. 

_She’s finally figured you out._ He muttered; he took a long, long pull from his bottle, which seemed to never empty, no matter how much he drank. 

Julian pointed his gaze to the dusty corner, eyes growing dark and hazy. “The night we dined with Lucio and Nadi, last fall. Lucio told us he was taking you into his household. Then he changed his mind. Do you remember?” 

Iris bit her lip, inhaling softly. “What did you do, Ilya?” 

Julian’s eyes flitted to hers; he felt shame sear through him, hot and poisonous. “I offered myself instead. Lucio accepted.” Behind him, his double laughed. _What a pretty way to say you let him fuck you raw._

Iris was struck dumb, for a moment, her eyes widening horribly with shock, with fear, with disbelief; her eyes grew watery as her lip trembled. “...What?” She whispered hoarsely. “Ilya, why? Why...” 

“Because I love you, Iris.” Julian murmured; his hands traced her waist tentatively, slowly slipping against the soft cotton of her shirt, as if uncertain if he was allowed to hold her. “I love you, Iris, I love you. I would do anything… _anything_ … to keep you safe…” 

She shook her head gently, faintly. “…Oh, Ilya, I never… not like this…”

_And in the end, you couldn’t even do that._ The double sneered on Julian’s shoulder, his pointed teeth white and wicked, the corners of his lips curled into a smile. _She’s going to die, and it’s all your fault. All that hate-fucking for nothing._

Julian gaped at her, unable to form a response. She traced her fingers over his sunken cheek, the sharp cheekbones. “Did he hurt you?” She asked softly, her voice drenched pain. 

Julian’s eyes welled, and he pressed his forehead to hers, his shoulders shaking, his stomach convulsing as he tried desperately to hold it back; Iris shushed him softly, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him closer to her. He buried his face in her oily hair as he cried. 

_Pathetic. She’s dying, and she’s the one comforting you._ The shadow took another pull from his bottle.

It took Julian several minutes to settle, Iris’s hands smoothing over his back, her eyelashes, wet, fluttering against his neck. His voice was still tremulous when he whispered in Iris’s ear, “ _Svjetlo moga života…_ there’s more…” 

Iris took a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay.” 

“Lucy offered Asra a deal, too. You or him. Or he leave the palace. Asra chose to leave.” 

Iris froze, her eyes wide with shock. She lifted her disbelieving gaze to Julian’s. “You knew?” 

“What?” 

Her face crumpled, tears swimming down her cheeks. “You let me believe all this time… that Asra left me… and you _knew_?” 

_Ohhhh._ The shadow whispered gleefully in Julian’s ear. _She still loves him, Ilya. She loves him more than you. Ah, but you knew that, didn’t you? You were always the consolation prize._

“...You knew?” Julian gasped softly. “How – we, I… was protecting you…”

Iris’s chest heaved as she rolled over onto her side. “I’m… I’m sorry Ilya, but I need… I need a moment, please…” 

“No, Iris, _draga_ , I won’t – I won’t leave you…” 

Iris’s features contorted; she threw her hands over her ears, curling violently into her self as the room ricocheted with the sibilant echoes of glass shattering; the lantern, now sanded in powder-fine glass, sputtered and went out, plunging them into choking darkness. 

“Get out, Ilya.” Iris whispered, her anger soft and sad, like a wounded animal. 

The room fell so silent that, even though Asra and Iris couldn’t see, as Asra held Iris’s hand and comfortingly ran his thumbs over her knuckles, as Iris’s entire body trembled, she could hear just their breaths, Iris’s ragged and gasping as panic overtook her, Julian’s hushed, almost withheld. There was a soft movement; Iris remembered the moment where he reached to brush a strand of hair away from her face, when she jerked away in her own dreams. 

“ _Draga moj_ … please…” Julian whispered, his voice almost frantic. 

“Go, Ilya.” She practically moaned. “Please.”

_She doesn’t want you here. She never really wanted you._ Julian’s double hissed. _You can’t deal with this sober. You wanted to be sober for her, for her last moments, but, well, you can’t handle that, can you?_ Iris could practically see the wild, snake-like grin. 

With an almost imperceptible sigh, Julian stood and, with just one turn of his hips, his shoulders, opened the cell door. Iris and Asra’s vision flooded with red-tinged light, with the dank smell of sweat and bleach and Death, as they entered the theater. 

It was surprisingly, shockingly quiet, save for the soft scraping of metal instruments, the subdued moans of the drugged patients, the skittering of the beetles in the disposal. Julian met the eyes of no one, only striding towards a clandestine storeroom near the back, barred with a heavy padlock; he unlocked it deftly from his keyring, even as Iris noticed a few of the other doctors watched him dispassionately, disapprovingly. 

It was dark, and cool, and empty, shelf upon shelf upon shelf of medicines of all kinds; a sour tingle ran down Iris’s spine as she saw Julian reach for a small bottle without looking at its label, the location memorized, the movement practiced. The double, the shadow, now leaned lazily against the wall, a wide smile spreading across his face as Julian adroitly prepared a clean syringe, his expression blank with defeat. 

_That’s right, you selfish monster._ The shadow muttered smoothly. _Run and hide. Drink, dope, and fuck away your feelings. All you know how to do. All you're good for._

He sat, on the floor, pulling up the sleeve of his loose shirt, the row of buttons at his wrist slipping open easily as he found the vein and forced the plunger down, the whole room blurring as the shadow cackled cruelly, victoriously…

The mahogany four-poster bed, dressed in gleaming, wet-looking satin and velvet, like defiant tongue, draped in silks like the dappled ridges of the roof of the mouth, drawn dark and shadowy like a throat. The lights were dimmed low, the heavy damask curtains drawn to eclipse the noonday sun, though violent light escaped over the hems, the edges, onto the Rostam rug. 

The heavy door opened; it was Julian, his medical kit slung under his arm, his head bowed low with exhaustion. He was dressed entirely in black, a sharp black suit and a black shirt, black leather gloves, polished black shoes. He set his kit down on the bedside table with a heavy sigh, and the bedsheets whispered almost silently as the shape entangled in them stirred, groaning in half-sleep, in annoyance. 

Julian said nothing as Lucio rolled onto his back; Iris inhaled sharply, the stale air of the bedroom rushing into her lungs. Lucio was waning; his skin was starting to sag, his already-sharp features sharpening with age, his hair was lightening, thinning. And he was weak; he grimaced as he sat up, the once-terrifying muscles of his trunk, his shoulders, his arm slackening, softening. His breathing was labored, and without his makeup, his skin was frighteningly pale, the red of his eyes especially bright. 

Still, he was cocky, smiling devilishly at Julian as he parted the curtains around the bed. “Good morning, Jules.” He purred softly, settling into the pillows, even throwing his metal arm jauntily over the headboard, the gauntlet removed for sleep. When Julian didn’t respond, didn’t react, merely opened his case and removed some bottles, a clean syringe, Lucio’s brow furrowed petulantly. “What’s got your panties in a twist this morning?” 

Julian turned to Lucio now, his features blank save for the slivered line of pain etched between his brows, the very corners of his mouth downturned with sorrow. “Has no one told you?” Julian murmured softly. 

“Told me what?” Lucio’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, sizing Julian up; he saw now the black, the pain on his face, the fatigue that rounded his shoulders, his back. Julian sighed heavily again, and turned away from Lucio, if only to hide the tears pricking painfully at his aching eyes, threatening to spill. 

He took a deep, shaking breath. “Iris died yesterday afternoon. We…” He swallowed hard, the sound pained, dry. “We processed her body early this morning. The remains are off to the Lazaret now.” He paused, his voice breaking. “That’s why I’m late. My apologies.” 

Lucio blinked stupidly, his brows furrowed. “She’s dead?”

Julian couldn’t speak; he only nodded once as his shoulders trembled. 

For a moment, Lucio was stunned into silence; his lips parted around something, a soft inhale, and for a moment, he looked almost distraught, almost compassionate, as if it stung to see Julian in so much pain, and something else, something wretched, something strange and childish, helpless. But in a flash, it was gone, the ghost of a smirk pulling at his lips. “It’s a fucking shame. She was a great little piece, and Noddy was so fond of her.” He tutted coolly. “Even if she was a petulant, frigid little bitch.” 

Julian wheeled around to Lucio now, his expression dark, his scowl twisted. “Watch your tongue or I’ll rip it out of you.” He hissed. 

“Come now, Jules.” Lucio muttered smugly. “We both know you’re all bark and no bite. The world is full of tits and ass and pussy, and there’s no shortage of people in this palace who would stumble over themselves to warm your bed.” He reached out lazily with his human hand to stroke Julian’s arm. “Besides, I would never leave you wanting.” 

Julian wrenched his arm out of Lucio’s hand like it had burnt him, his sneer even wider, darker, animal. “Don’t you ever fucking touch me again.” 

“Oh.” Lucio purred, amused. “We are feisty today, aren’t we, Jules?” 

“I did this for her. Everything, everything was…” Julian couldn’t hold it back any longer; he was sobbing, his shoulders shaking. “…it was to protect her...” 

Lucio laughed coldly, throwing his head back against the headboard as Julian hid his contorted face in his trembling hands. “Oh, did you _love_ her, Jules? Was she the sun in the sky, the stars that guided you at sea? Did the flowers bloom when she walked past them, did the birds sing?” His eyes flashed cruelly. “Love isn’t real, Jules, it’s just a rush of hormones from our lizard brains telling us to fuck anything that will open their legs. So we can spread our seed, continue our legacies. You’ll get over her, eventually. Soon there will be another bouncy, young ass you’ll be chasing or a cock you’ll be riding, and you’ll feel exactly the same about them. You’ll forget her. In fact…” He chuckled now. “I’ll show you how forgettable she is. I’ll forbid her name be spoken in the palace. There will be no announcement of her passing, and no mourning for her. And I assure you… everyone. _Everyone._ Will forget her. Even you.” 

“You’re wrong.” Julian whimpered through his tears. “I won’t. Asra won’t. Nadia won’t.” 

“You’ll see.” Lucio grinned. “The only ones who aren’t forgotten are those with true power. And Iris, well. She had her voice, her magic, her beauty. She had power. But not power like mine.” Lucio lurched forward, startling Julian; with an explosive gasp of cinder and flame, the room was alight, and Lucio was crawling towards Julian, with each movement growing weaker, bleaker, older, until he was nothing but a weathered husk, though his face grew wilder, more twisted, his eyes glittering and red.

“I have power.” Lucio croaked feebly. “I have power that would make your head spin, Jules. And I can get more. I can always find more power. What do you have? You couldn’t even keep your beloved Iris alive. You fail again and again to find a cure for the plague. You don’t even have the power to control your own urges. When was the last time you used? You’re trembling like a fucking newborn.” 

If Iris had blinked, she would have missed it; the shadow of Julian, both his sanguine eyes fixed over his shoulder at Lucio, his lips twisted into a sneer, appeared next to Julian, his back to the bed. They were dressed identically, Iris realized – the suit the shadow wore was the exact same as Julian’s mourning costume, the elegant black shirt, the fine tailored waistcoat, the sharp angles of his jacket and pants. They stood shoulder to shoulder now as the shadow pressed something into Julian’s fingers – a long knife, the black blade glinting dully against the flicker of flames that danced around them, licked at their backs and elbows, all bark, no bite. 

_You should have done this a long time ago._ The shadow’s voice hissed from the dark corners of the room, snaking around Iris and Asra. _You know what the cure for the plague is. She could still be alive if you’d stopped being a fucking coward._

Julian wrapped his fingers around the knife’s hilt even as his hands shook, his eyes wide. Lucio was coughing violently, his whole body lurching as he retched, his skin sallow and damp with sweat, with exertion. “N-no...” Julian whispered shakily.

_But it would be so easy. He’s so weak, and you have the truth on your side. He’s not a good man, Ilya. He killed Iris. He killed before her, and if he’s kept alive, he’ll continue to kill. This is the right thing, you’re just too fucking cowardly to do it._ The shadow’s voice was rising, more disgusted and forceful with each syllable, with each pained twist of Julian’s face. 

“I...I can’t. I _can’t_. He’s sick, he’s helpless, it’s not right...” Julian whimpered, his whole body tense like a piano string, waiting for something, someone, anything, to move him. 

_You can’t even avenge her._ The double hissed, his lips on Julian’s ear, his nose and mouth lifted into a ferocious growl. _You’re worthless, useless to the bone, a selfish monster. You could have saved Iris, and you didn’t. You kept this horrible man alive because you were too scared to kill him. You couldn’t live with his vile blood on your hands._

For a horrible moment, Julian raised the curved knife over Lucio’s body, even as he snarled at Julian, laughed at him cruelly, as the flames singed his skin, as his edges dissolved into ash. Julian’s face contorted with anguish, his hands were shaking –

Clarity washed over his features, his brows knitting together with confusion. He turned to the double as he lowered the knife to his side. “...No.” He said firmly but softly. “No. Iris...” His lips opened and closed a few times, as his soft gray eyes darted back and forth, alight with certainty. “She would never want me to do this. She would never...” He wiped his face quickly with both hands, the knife clattering to the ground in a cacophony of steel on wood; it was as if he was making sure he was real, as if he weren’t dreaming. “No one would want me to do this. Not Iris, not Asra, not Pasha, not Nadia. They...” 

_You’re a coward. Hiding behind your loved ones._ The shadow growled, but there was a tinge of something new, something that sped up their speech. _You’re worthless, useless, unlovable…_

“Maybe I was.” Julian whispered. “I’ve done a lot of things I regret. But I’ve changed. And this…? I’m _not_ a murderer. Doing this would make me… make me just like him…” 

Lucio’s blackened body was enveloped in flames now and he was screaming in agony; Julian watched him with something like compassion as the scene warped and vibrated in front of them…

Moonlight streaming coolly through stained glass, blood red and cobalt blue and sea green. Purple hyacinths and irises, their scents floating up through the open windows of the library. The stars staring dully from the velvet-black sky. The air was hot and still, expectant, as the four of them stood paces away from the balustrade on the second floor. A thick brown rope, the only warmth in a sea of cool gray stone, was tied at one end around the railing. The other end was looped into a noose.

The double’s eyes were soft, almost warm, as they opened their mouth; Julian’s sotto singing voice filling the silent library. _“Dreamers… they never learn…”_

Julian, their Julian, stepped forward like as sleepwalker, his expression hazy; tears were streaming down his cheeks. Iris was frozen, and Asra, beside her, tensed, not even reaching for her hand, not even pulling her closer as they both stood rooted, horrified.

_“Beyond the point of no return…”_

“There’s no point.” Julian whispered. “She’s dead… I couldn’t… I couldn’t save her… I couldn’t save anyone…” His face was a study in desolation, in hopelessness. “I… I’m useless… worthless… I’m alone…” He took another halting step towards the balustrade, his face slicing through the moonlight, the shadows sharpening his churning, expressive lips, his distraught brow. 

_“It’s too late… the damage is done…”_

“I just… want to see her…” He wept, and then collapsed, shaking, onto his knees. “I can’t...” 

_She’s waiting for you._ The shadow’s voice was the sweetest it had ever been, quietly comforting. _She wants to be with you. Don’t make her wait any longer._

Julian crawled forward, his hand outstretched for the noose, the only sound in the library now was his choked, wretched sobs, the strange groaning warping of the dream, as if it were rending, as if they were staring into the mouth of the oblivion, white, white, nothing, nothing. For one horrible moment, panic streaked through Iris, and helplessness welled up in her, she couldn’t will her feet to move, her body to act. At her side, Asra strained, his voice hitching before he whimpered, “Ilya… honey…” 

“No…” Julian murmured so quietly it could have been a wish, shaking his head softly even as he reached forward, even as his fingers trembled. “I don’t want this…”

The library flooded with soft white light; Iris’s palms were glowing, the mark of the bargain pulsating in the moonlight. She moved as if lead by her hands, outstretched tentatively before her as she approached Julian from behind. Gently, so gently, she laid her hands on his shoulders as she kneeled down behind him. “Ilya, sweet Ilya...” She whispered into his ear. “I’m right here, darling. I’m right here. I love you. I love you so much.” She pressed her cheek against his back, listening to the beating of his heart through the back of his ribcage as he shook violently. “You are not the things you’ve done, the things that have been done to you.”

Asra joined her, kneeling at Julian’s side, taking his outstretched hand in his and intertwining their fingers, drawing his hand away from the noose. “You’re not useless, and you’re not worthless. You’re not a monster.” He whispered to Julian. “Even if you were, Ilya, we would still love you. I…” his voice faltered. “I would still love you.” 

“You don’t have to be good.” Iris whispered. “You just have to be. We love you for you, Ilya.” 

Julian didn’t respond to either of them, but his body seemed to relax, his breathing slowing, his tears stopping their descent as he let his head droop. Iris hardly noticed that the double had disappeared without a sound. 

Something hard and ice-cold, not muscle, not bone, pressed against Iris’s cheek, and she resisted the urge to jerk away; her fingers swam to the place between Julian’s shoulderblades and grasped it, pulling gently. It was a sword’s hilt, just like the one Iris had pulled from Asra’s heart, but shorter; its moonstone blade absorbed and refracted the moonlight, and as soon as Iris grasped it in her hands, she saw the black chains gleaming dully around Julian’s arms, his wrists, his torso, binding him to the balustrade, to the dream, to his past. 

Iris stood and raised the short sword carefully, before slicing down once; the chains swept away in an effervescent cloud of black smoke, screaming quietly as they dissolved. Julian seemed to uncoil, his shoulders straightening, lifting his face to the moon through the stained glass, his eyes clear, his brow furrowed. He slowly squeezed Asra’s hand in his, turning to him with his lips parted. 

Asra brought their intertwined fingers up to his lips, softly kissing Julian’s knuckles. “You did it, Ilya…” He murmured softly. 

Julian turned to Iris now, who was still standing behind him, the sword wielded in her shaking fingers. She trembled to see his eyes, the sea-clear gray, the soul-burning scarlet, staring up at her with blinding adoration, in wonder. “I didn’t do anything…” He whispered. 

Iris sheathed the sword, next to the other hanging from her hip (where had the scabbard come from?), and she knelt at his other side, throwing her arms around his shoulders, pressing her lips to his in a breathless kiss. “You did.” She cooed as she pulled away, as Asra laid his head on Julian’s shoulder, their fingers still intertwined. “You wanted to change. You wanted to be freed.” 

“Then you freed me.” Julian murmured, pressing his lips into her hair now, taking in the smell of her scalp. 

“No, Ilya.” She brushed his wild hair out of his eyes. “You reached for something, and you took my hand. You took Asra’s hand. That’s what freed you.” They kissed again; Iris felt familiar hands on her shoulders, small and warm, gentle but calloused, the scent of lilies, the calm silvery smile of moonlight, and they were all pulled out of the dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> Poor sweet Juli bb. Poor sweet all three of them, really.
> 
> Drink some water today, take a long bath, make some nice tea. Hug the ones you love. 
> 
> See you in the Sun.


	7. The Sun, Part 1: The Gods Are Singing Through Your Body

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hotelier - Soft Animal // Taylor Swift - Look What You Made Me Do**
> 
> _CW: Allusions to and discussions of: drug use, rape and ambicon, disruptive thoughts and suicidal ideation, entrapment, and slavery; fighting and violence, blood_

“Fuuuck.” Iris groaned, squinting her eyes against the rude sun that sliced through the transom window. She shielded her eyes, as her head, for a moment, radiated searing pain through her meridian; the sheets rustled as Julian stretched beside her, arching his back and pressing the swath of his bare chest that wasn’t covered by his unbuttoned black shirt into her clothed back, sighing contentedly as the tension dissipated in his tight shoulders. 

There was a soft, sleepy grunt on Iris’s other side, and Asra’s lips brushed against hers in the sweetest, drowsiest kiss, his billowing white shirt falling open over his amber shoulders as he pulled her closer to him. “Good morning, my heart.” He murmured. She instinctually placed her hand on his cheek, his skin warm from the sun, tingling almost painfully on the broken palm of her hand. 

She jolted up as if shocked, staring at her trembling hands, the deep red burns, now scabbed over and tender. She was wearing the gray dress, the leather, her boots, and strapped to her hips with strips of gray leather were both swords, sheathed safely. Julian sat up at her side, his hand falling questioningly onto her arm, his eyes wide with concern, before his gaze fell on her wounded palms. 

“When did you…” He whispered softly, as Asra rose from the sheets, wrapping his arms around Iris’s waist as his half-lidded gaze slid to Iris’s hands. 

Asra inhaled sharply, eyes flying wide as the moon. “The dreams.” 

“We’re awake.” Iris said softly, almost disbelievingly. “We’re awake. We must be…” With a peal of wild laughter, she gripped Julian’s shoulder tightly, Asra’s hand winding over hers as she turned to the transom window. The glass was so lit up with sun that it was impossible to see out of, casting all of them in a gorgeous golden glow. Iris scrambled out of the bed, rushing for the door to the Mearcstapa’s deck, Julian and Asra right behind her; with a grunt, she wrested open the heavy wooden door. Buttery yellow sunlight filled the little cabin, and they stepped out into the warm morning.

The light haloed in Iris’s eyes for a moment, dazzling her, before her vision settled: the Mearcstapa was unharmed and whole, just as the Moon had shown her, but it was moored in a never-ending field of swaying golden grasses, wheat and barley and wildflowers, their warm baked scent rising to Iris’s nostrils, making her mouth water. She let out another ringing, sonorant laugh, dancing and pirouetting over the deck, her skirts blossoming around her hips, feeling the sun on her skin, the warm fragrant air in her lungs, the lightness of her being. 

She grabbed Julian’s hands, leading him in an ecstatic dance, something between a tango and a Nivenese folk dance, twirling and swiveling, as Iris shimmied and rolled her hips. He laughed with her, not his barking laugh, but a joyous laugh, booming and melodious, letting her lead him, returning her playful touches, her feverish, frantic kisses; then she turned to Asra, who lifted her off of her feet, spinning her through the air, his eyes blazing with pride, with love, before he drew her into a powerful, emotional embrace, his lips pressed to her temple. 

“You never cease to astonish me, Iris.” He whispered to her, just as a sonorant voice sang over the quiet grasses. 

“Ahoy there, sleepyheads!” 

All three of them turned towards the sound; the gangway had been flung down, and at its end, standing waistdeep in the tall grasses, were two figures. The first was a man of average height, stocky and barrel-chested, waving to them with his whole muscled arm, a riot of freckles spanning his cheeks, his bare, tattooed forearms, the skin that peeked out of his tan shirt. His hair and beard were the color of cinnamon, a few shades lighter than Julian’s, and his sparkling eyes were the same color as the grasses, a gleaming gold ochre.

The woman was several centimeters shorter than him, her long silver-blonde hair trailing liquidly behind her, woven through with tiny rubies that glittered on silvery strands. Her face was Iris’s face, lips pulled into a knowing smile, her black eyes glittering with triumph. Iris ran down the gangplank without a second thought, barreling into Death’s arms, who picked her up as if she weighed nothing and pulled her into an embrace that Iris never wanted to leave. “Child...” She murmured, her voice warm and soothing. “You made it...” 

“Well, come on, don’t be shy!” The man bellowed again up the gangplank, where both Julian and Asra stood transfixed, uncertain. “I know Mother Moon put you through the ringer, but Daddy won’t hurt you.” 

Death rolled her eyes visibly, even as a smile crept across her face. “That’s disgusting, Hyperion.” 

The Sun snorted, and Iris’s heart skipped a beat; even his laugh sounded just like her father’s, the memories rushing in and out of her like tides. “Why do you think I took this form? Let them squirm a little.” He raised his eyebrows to Iris, winking as he clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Your dad never got a chance to put them through their paces.” 

“Did you know him?” Iris asked, surprised. The Sun hummed, a thoughtful smile pulling on his full lips. Iris had her father’s dimples, two sets, and the Sun hadn’t missed this detail.

“Your father didn’t exactly commune with the Arcana, no. But we all knew him just the same. Just like Ilya here.” Julian had crept down the gangway behind Asra, who surveyed the Sun curiously even as Death held her arms out for him, pulling him into a motherly embrace. The Sun, several centimeters shorter than Julian, reached up to ruffle his hair, earning him an embarrassed flush. “The Arcana exist in the psyches of every human being, whether they know it or not. And your father, when he wasn’t chasing the Hierophant, was calling me down, Iris.” 

Julian’s eyes shot wide with panic. “T-this is your father?” He stammered. He looked half like he wanted to offer his hand for a handshake, half like he wanted the realm to open up under him and swallow him whole. 

The Sun chuckled. “Well, she didn’t quite spring from my loins, per say, but this is her father’s form.” 

“Universe grant me patience.” Death muttered as Julian flushed even darker, and Asra laughed heartily. “He’s no more Iris’s father than I’m Iris, Ilya, child.” She explained patiently as she pulled him into a hug.

“I… I knew that.” Julian faltered. “The Star, the Hanged Man, the Magician. It’s just…” 

“We never had a chance to meet him when he was alive. It’s a little uncanny.” Asra finished for Julian, his eyes sparkling curiously as he regarded the Sun. “Is this your realm, then?” 

“Yup.” The Sun flung his arms wide, and the grasses whipped like they were buffeted by the wind. “Welcome to the Sun.” 

Iris turned to Death, her gaze soft. “So then this is where the Devil sent you.” 

Death nodded once, her eyes darkening. “He didn’t just do that. He ripped me from your body. He weakened me, weakened you. He tried to sever our affinity.” 

Iris raised an eyebrow. “Tried?” 

Death snorted. “You spent ten months in my arms, child. One moment of doubt sown can’t change that.” She turned to the Sun. “Luckily, I was able to hide out here. Rest here. Search for you. Hyperion was able to protect me.” 

“Hecate was too weak to even travel to other Arcane realms.” The Sun said softly, his brows furrowed. “I’d had no idea Baph had been siphoning off her power. He approached me eons ago about the deal, but he never returned.” 

Asra’s brows furrowed thoughtfully; his gaze flitted to Iris’s. “The Sun would be an extremely difficult Arcana to corrupt. Optimism, wonder, warmth, energy. Even reversed… it’s a call to connect to those things.” 

The Sun hummed again thoughtfully. “Don’t be so sure, Asra. Optimism can be as blinding as rage if not tempered. But I wouldn’t expect Baph to understand that.” He glanced sidelong at Death, his golden yellow eyes darkening. “I left Death here to heal and did some traveling of my own through the Arcane realms. The Moon, the Star, they were both unharmed, though they had sensed disturbances in our Arcane siblings, as I had not, felt their own powers weakening because of it. And then I traveled further.” 

“The Tower.” Asra muttered. 

“Yes.” The Sun replied sadly. “I couldn’t find them. Their realm was just storm after storm, all leading to the same locked tower.” 

“I saw them.” Iris interjected. “They appeared to me twice when we were in their realm.” She glanced at Julian and Asra, but their features were painted with confusion. “But just to me. When I quelled the storm, and when I freed Nadia. After I...” Iris paused, her chest suddenly tight. “After I toppled the tower by the sea.” 

“It could be that the Devil couldn’t force the Tower out completely.” Death mused. “The Tower is unstoppable and powerful as a concept. Even weakened, they are a force to be reckoned with. If you felled the tower, you helped them regain some of their power. It’s meant to fall.” 

he Sun nodded. “But it wasn’t just the Tower I couldn’t find. Temperance was missing, too, her realms barren and drought-cracked. I couldn’t even enter Justice’s realm. The Hierophant’s vineyard was overgrown and chaotic. And you, Death. Your realm was completely frozen over.” 

“That motherfucker.” Death murmured acidly. 

At Iris’s side, Julian pressed his fingers into his temples. “Why… why do those Arcana sound familiar?” He muttered. 

Asra hummed. “Because they were represented at the ritual.” The Tarot deck seemed to jump out of the ether into his hand as he procured it from his white beaded sash; he drew the first five cards, fanning them out in front of him in order. 

Julian’s brow furrowed, staring at the cards. “The Courtiers.” 

“Of course.” Iris whispered. She plucked the **Death** card, exactly in the middle, from Asra’s hands, holding it out in front of Death. The long mane of stillborn blue hair flowing like water, the horse’s skull in profile, the scythe that seemed to be forged of slivered moonlight. “Valdemar is the demon that the Devil siphoned your power to. They were at the ritual, sitting in the 13th seat.” 

Julian’s eyes widened. “Have the Courtiers taken the place of the Arcana?” 

“I don’t know.” Iris murmured. “But Valerius was the Hierophant in the ritual. Lucio’s trophy for him was a brooch of a ram’s horn.” 

“In Valerius’s memory, Julian was surrounded by the Courtiers.” Asra murmured. He tapped each remaining card in order. “Vlastomil, seated at the end of the table, in Justice’s seat. Then Valdemar, in Death’s. Volta next, in Temperance’s. Then Vulgora in the Tower.” 

“What if the ritual was another bargain with the Devil?” Iris mused. “What if the Devil siphoned off the power of the Arcana to the Courtiers? And they replaced the Arcana, just like Valdemar did with Death?” 

“I… I don’t know what it would do.” Asra breathed, looking up at Iris with dark eyes. “But it would make the entire Universe extremely unstable.” 

“Unstable enough to break down the spaces between realms?” Julian asked, his eyes far away, his lips downturned in thought. 

Iris was still staring at the Death card, her lips parted with focus. “The Devil said I could become Death, if I wanted to. If I participated in the ritual.” A dark thought arced through her, chilling her to her very bones. “If the Devil gets all 22 participants… he could replace the entire Arcana with those indebted to him, bound to him. With demons.” 

“And he’d have the Fool’s body.” Asra finished for Iris with a shudder. “The Universe would be his plaything.” 

The Sun hummed again. “For every bargain the Devil deals, for every fear he exploits, he grows stronger. Each chain is a tether that he saps power from.” At his side, Death’s smile grew wide. 

“But Iris can break chains.” Her glittering black eyes trailed down to the swords sheathed at Iris’s side. Her hand flew instinctually to the hilt of the longer sword, tracing the soft leather wrapped around it – her palm surged with pain, and she winced. 

“I could break Julian’s chains, Asra’s chains. I don’t know…” Her breath faltered. 

“You broke my parents’ chains, too, heart.” Asra murmured softly, and Julian’s brows shot up in shock. 

“You have parents now, too?” He couldn’t stop himself, his mouth falling open incredulously. 

Iris smiled softly, her hand finding the small of his back as Asra chuckled once, more like a huff of breath. “We have so much to tell you.” She whispered to him soothingly. “All in due time, darling.” Julian seemed mollified, but his lips were still pursed, his brow furrowed as he sewed everything together in his mind. 

“You broke my chains because I wanted to be freed of them. But could you break someone’s bonds to the Devil by force?” He wondered. 

“No.” Iris turned over her palms, the burns still raw and angry and red. “I tried.” 

“With my chains, in my nightmares.” Asra’s hand wound around her waist, pulling her closer as he pressed his lips into her hair. 

The Sun turned away from them for a moment, staring up into the white-gold sun that shone above them, bright eyes aching in the light. He suddenly lifted up his arm, and a slash of shadow whispered across the sun’s face; then a massive peregrine falcon, red and brown and white feathers, golden talons, landed on his arm, the claws not piercing his bare skin. In its hooked beak was a fieldmouse, blood dripping from the gash in its distended belly, but still it struggled and squealed, fighting for its life. 

The Sun turned back to them. “If there’s one thing I know about mortals, it’s that very few truly, truly lose the will to continue on. Even those staring down oblivion look for something to cling to. A dream, a hope. A love.” Iris felt Julian’s weight shift under her fingers, his breath catching softly. “Many just can’t find it by themselves. They can’t break the chains that bind them completely on their own.” 

“And if you break those demons’ chains… restore power to the rest of the Arcana… Baph will be extremely weakened.” Death purred certainly. “But it won’t be easy.” 

“No.” The Sun agreed. “But none of this has been easy, has it?” He held his unoccupied hand out under the falcon’s mouth; they dropped their catch dutifully, and, with a cry, took again to the adamant sky. The mouse struggled, and with a soft smile, a halo of golden light, its wounds were healed. The Sun knelt and let the little creature scurry out of his hand into the tall grasses. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need; I will ensure no time passes Earthside. Prepare yourselves for the battle to come. It will not be the last.” He straightened and stood. “The Devil will not go down without a fight of his own.” 

“Prepare how?” Iris asked. The Sun laughed, his piercing gaze roving from Iris, to Asra, to Julian. 

“How you see fit.” He wrapped a hand around Death, a fatherly gesture, and Iris’s heart ached. “We’ll be here. Call on us should you need us. And when you’re ready, I’ll send you back earthside.” 

“Thank you.” Iris murmured. “Really.” 

The Sun’s smile was rueful now. “This is the least I can do. I ignored the Devil when he came to me. I suspect our fallen siblings, like Death, resisted him, actively sought to stop him, and he punished them. My sisters, the Star and the Moon, were able to give your higher purpose and your memories. For now, I can give you safety, and hope. Use it well.”

Death held out a hand to Iris now; she took it without hesitation. “You’ve come so far, child. You can do this. You all can do this. We believe in you.” With a smile, a squeeze of her hand, a proud sparkle in her eyes, both Death and the Sun vanished like a rift in the void. 

The only sound now was the rustling of the grasses in the wind, their warm scent wafting up to Iris’s nostrils. Her stomach growled, loudly; she realized she had no idea how long they had been sleeping. 

Asra chuckled, his lips still in Iris’s hair, soft breath puffing hotly against her scalp. “I’ll see if I can rustle up some breakfast. The galley was accommodating before. Then maybe we all can explore a little.” 

With a soft squeeze of her fingers, careful of her burnt palm, he let go, levitating himself up the gangplank with a soft chime, just like the spell his mother had cast. 

“May I?” Julian nodded to the swords at Iris’s hip. Tentatively, she unwrapped the leather strips around her hips and passed the longer of the swords to Julian. 

He unsheathed it deftly, eyes going wide. “I’ve never seen anything like this.” He murmured, almost entranced. “It looks like it could be a Nipponese blade, but I’ve never seen one in the flesh.” With a gesture of his chin, Iris stepped back, and Julian, with both hands on the hilt, swiped downward skillfully, then across, then spun in a feint. “It’s not a saber, but I can work with this.” Julian’s hand found Iris’s now, turning her palm over in his hand. “Did you ever learn how to wield a sword, darling?” He asked quietly.

Iris smiled softly, looking up into his eyes. “I’ve learned a lot of things in a lot of lives, but I’ve never used a sword, no.” 

“Maybe I should teach you a thing or two.” He said with a smirk. “So you don’t accidentally slice your fingers off, or worse.” His thumb traced the round swell of her thumb’s mound, mirroring the deep arc of the burn. “Not that you’ll be able to do much with these.” 

Iris bit her lip at the little burn, the tenderness screaming soft through her nerves. “It’s not that bad.” She muttered, not succeeding in disguising the pain in her voice. Julian tutted, and raised her hand to his lips, well away from the wound; he kissed her, letting his lips linger, his eyes flutter closed, on her pulse, beating quietly, softly, under his kiss. 

“Let me...” He murmured – he reached for his medical kit, still slung over his hip, black leather creaking as he extracted gauze, a salve, from his bag. Iris only smiled, sinking down to her knees, outstretching her hands to him. 

He was silent as he worked, his beautiful, skillful hands over hers, his gray eyes misty and far away. It was only as he wrapped the second hand, gently knotting the gauze around the back of her hand, that he spoke. 

“So it wasn’t just a dream?” He whispered, his voice so, so quiet. “You pulling the sword from my heart.” He paused, his hands falling into his lap, curling over each other, like a child’s – he didn’t, couldn’t, look at her. “You were there. You saw everything.” 

Iris took her hands in his, careful of the dressings, of her wounds, still stinging gently. “I was, darling.” She said softly. “So was Asra.”

A flush burned bright across his sharp features; Iris could feel him trembling. “Those dreams… they weren’t just dreams. They were real, most of them, they happened. I –”

Iris’s fingertips drifted up to his cheeks, and she leaned in, kissed him so, so gently. “I know, darling. It’s okay.” 

He swallowed hard. “I’m not proud of the things I’ve done, Iris. I...” Iris could feel little drops, warm and sweet, on her fingers. “...I never wanted you to see what I’d done. I let you down. I let everyone down. I was weak.” 

“No, Ilya. You nearly worked yourself to death searching for a cure. You sacrificed yourself to protect me. You did more than anyone asked you to.” She smiled at him, even as tears sparkled in her eyes. “You are so, so good, darling. You don’t even see it. Even after all the horrible things Lucio did, the horrible things he put you through, you were still so good.” 

“I let you die alone.” He whispered. “I let Lucio break me. I couldn’t...” 

“It’s okay.” Iris murmured. “I’m here now. I forgive you. You need to forgive yourself, darling.” She held him close, and for a moment, they just breathed each other in, Iris tracking the steady rise and fall of Julian’s chest, the slowing of his heartbeat. 

“Even if you were a monster before… the most selfish, evil of men... you can always come back.” Iris whispered into his neck. “It’s who you are now that matters. And I love who you are, Ilya. You’re so beautiful to me that it hurts.”

Julian pressed his lips into her hair. “I love you too, _draga moj_. If I’m good, it’s because you were good to me.” 

Iris hummed softly, but said nothing as a gentle breeze rustled the grasses around them, ruffled Julian’s hair. She didn’t know how long it was they held each other, pulled out of their love daze only by the sound of Asra’s voice from the Mearcstapa. 

“I hope you’re hungry!” He called, descending the gangplank, a wide grin painting his face. “I might have overdone it a bit...” In his hands was a Nuru basket, woven grasses dyed cyan and purple, covered with what looked like a blanket. 

With a chuckle, Iris and Julian disentangled, though Iris wound her fingers through his as they all headed off through the grasses – Asra had spotted a stream nearby from the top of the mast. It wasn’t much more than 500 paces away, and when they broke through the grasses to the banks, Iris gasped softly. 

The rocky stream was wide, perhaps seven meters across, and deep enough in the middle that it came at least to Iris’s ribs, but that wasn’t what shocked Iris – the water was a startling deep, clear blue, like liquid lapis lazuli, glittering as it tumbled and gurgled over the rocks. Around the stream, a few winding trees grew, willows, oaks and elms, their leaves all a lustrous autumn yellow. 

“I thought you might like it.” Asra’s voice sounded in Iris’s ear, low and sweet, his fingers brushing a curl of hair away as he kissed her temple. He lifted the bundle out of the basket and unwrapped the blanket, revealing a massive, undisturbed spread – two types of freshly baked bread, fluffy biscuits and sesame-studded pide, three types of cheese, olives and jam and honey, a salad of cucumbers and tomatoes, dried sausage swimming in glowing, spicy oil and perfectly fried eggs, sprinkled with crumbles of smoked goat cheese and parsley. There was even black tea and coffee, freshly brewed and ready in gleaming silver Franc presses.

“Asra, this looks amazing.” Iris crooned, her stomach growling, dropping to her knees on the blanket and setting out the plates and mugs that Asra had stowed in the basket. 

“All this was in the Mearcstapa, hm?” Julian asked Asra with a raised brow, planting a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth before sitting down next to Iris, delicately sniffing the coffee, which she was already pouring for him. Asra chuckled as he sat across from them, willing two knives to life to cut the bread and a block of harder cheese. 

“I might have summoned a few things.” He said with a wry smile. “It’s not a real Vesuvian breakfast without fresh tomatoes. And I may have stolen a few eggs from Muriel.” 

“He’ll never forgive you.” Iris deadpanned, ripping up a piece of bread to dip in the soft farm cheese. 

They ate in contented mostly silence, listening to the soothing susurrus of the stream as they fed each other little bits and morsels, enjoying just being in each other’s company, devouring the spread until only olive pits and breadcrumbs were left. It was when Iris let out a satisfied sigh, sipping her second cup of coffee, that Asra cleared his throat. 

“We should talk about what happened in the Moon’s realm, I think.” He said softly, his gaze flitting from Iris to Julian, who was lounging back on his elbows, his legs, crossed at the ankles, stretched long in front of him. Julian exhaled slowly, soft and low – the sound was steeped in pain. Iris touched his hand reassuringly, her smile soft. 

“I agree. The Moon wanted to show us so we could share our pain with each other. So we could share the burden.” Iris said softly. “So I want to share my dreams with both of you. I don’t think either of you saw.” She turned to Julian, the corner of her lips turning up, bittersweet. “My first dream was with you, darling, the same dream as yours – you caring for me as I was dying. But it was different. I was so angry at you, for everything. I think... I think in your dream, you couldn’t sense my anger as acutely because I was trying to control it, and you – you blamed yourself, you thought yourself weak. But in my dream, I felt it all. I blamed you leaving on me losing control of my magic. Then...”

She turned to Asra. “I saw my resurrection. Bits and pieces of my throning. You couldn’t leave my side – your touch helped me, probably because you were what tethered me earthside, your heart. But you were so exhausted, so frightened. And I couldn’t do anything for myself. You had no choice but to take me to Ilya’s to look for him, and I recovered my memories there.” Asra stiffened visibly, his brows furrowed with pain. “I was so angry with you after I saw everything, I was in so much pain, that I couldn’t control my magic. So you obliterated my memory.” 

Iris paused now, biting her lip. Without a word, Asra scooted across the blanket so he was on Iris’s other side, wrapping an arm around her waist, resting his head on her shoulder. “The next dream… I don’t know exactly what happened, I was performing. But Lucio had assaulted me, I had these horrible bruises and cuts on my neck. I showed them to the people I was performing for, embarrassing Lucy. He tried to punish me by giving me an ultimatum.” Iris’s breath caught in her throat. “He wanted me. He promised me your safety, Ilya, and Asra, your safe return to the palace, if I would sleep with him. And I was going to do it, I was…” Iris felt the slip of tears in her eyes, the hot paths they cut on her cheeks, and she scrunched her eyes shut to quell the sobs that ached in her throat. “…I was in his bed, h-he was on top of me… But I couldn’t do it. I panicked, and I ran.” 

A cool, gloved hand came to rest on her cheek, wiping her tears away – Iris opened her eyes to find Julian’s, the gray and the scarlet, wide and distraught. “ _Draga_...I remember that. Performing. But I had no idea he...” He couldn’t finish. 

Iris’s face crumpled. “I could have saved you from so much suffering, Ilya, and Asra, you could have come back, we could have… we all could have been together, it might have been different, we might not…” Iris gasped, panic gripping each of her nerves, her muscles. “We might not be in this mess… if I had relinquished control… swallowed my pride…” 

Asra pressed a soft, lingering kiss on Iris’s other cheek. “No, heart. Neither of us wanted that for you. And there’s no guarantee that we would have been happy. That Lucio wouldn’t have asked for more and more. That’s how the Devil lures you in, with sweet words that cast long shadows, with promises after promises.” 

Iris sniffed, covering Julian’s hand with her own, leaning into Asra’s kiss. “I know. But… I think that’s why I took the Devil’s deal. Even if I didn’t remember, I felt guilty, and powerless; he showed me your loneliness, your fear, Asra, and Ilya, your addictions, your deep sadness – he made it seem like both of you were trying to control me, that you felt powerless, too.” 

“And maybe we did.” Asra whispered. “The Devil may have warped what you saw, but there had to be some truth behind it. For me… it was true. Partly true.” 

“I know.” Iris turned to Asra now. “You were trying to protect me. And you knew about the fire.” 

Asra nodded, softly, pressing his forehead to hers. Julian’s eyes were wide. “You know about the fire?” He whispered, his voice choked. 

Iris turned to him. “The last dream. I saw everything.” She smiled softly, almost fondly, her eyes far away. “It’s so strange. I knew exactly what to do, to gather my younger self in my arms, to soothe her, forgive her.” 

Julian’s hands shook as he grasped Iris’s. “I have so many memories of you waking up in terror. You blamed yourself, even though you were so young, and your parents, they didn’t know...” 

“It was no one’s fault.” Iris whispered. “A horrible accident, one I have to learn to forgive myself for. But if it hadn’t happened… I’d have never met you, or Asra.” 

“The wound is where the light enters you.” Asra whispered in her ear, and Iris chuckled softly. 

“I’d like to think that my parents are happy, knowing that I have you both in my lives. That the pain led me to you.” She squeezed Julian’s hand, pressed her palm to Asra’s cheek. “They only ever wanted what was best for me, what would make me happy and safe. I would never wish it on them again, but I can’t change what happened. And now that I have my memories… I can honor them.” 

“Your memories…?” Julian perked up again, eyes wide, and Iris smiled, holding his face in both her hands now. 

“My memories. All of them. After my dreams, the Moon spoke to me. I told her I didn’t need them, and then she gifted them to me.” Her eyes lit up, even as tears threatened her again. “I remember everything, Ilya.” 

He took a shuddering breath, his eyes welling, too. “ _Draga moj_...” He whispered, gathering her in his arms, as Asra brushed his tears away, his other hand rubbing Iris’s back, long, slow strokes up and down her spine. “ _Sve što vidim na svjetlu_...” 

They all held each other, for a moment, and then Iris spoke again. “Then the Moon sent me through, into Asra’s dreams.” Iris finished, with a whisper. “She told me… she told me I could help others heal.”  
She turned to Asra, taking his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. 

Asra bit his lip, uncertain how to begin. “My dream...was an unending coil, a spiral downward. I kept reliving memories of rejection, of abandonment. Ilya, I didn’t know you were locked in the dungeons when I searched for you, when Iris was throning in the Fool’s body. The one time I needed you, you weren’t there for me. It wasn’t your fault, but…” His eyes glittered. “Nadia couldn’t help me when Iris died, she was so far sunk in her own grief. For almost a year, I didn’t know what had happened to Muriel, didn’t know he was imprisoned under the coliseum, until I saw him at court, acting as Lucio’s bodyguard… I thought he had left me, left without saying goodbye… Opal dying… I-Iris dying… giving her my – my heart at the gate… my parents… I kept dreaming of closed doors, of no one answering me when I cried…” He shook now, wracked with sobs. 

Iris squeezed his hand, and Julian took his other; they waited, patiently, as Asra’s breath slowly steadied. “I came to… with Iris’s arms around me. I couldn’t tell if it was still the dream or not, but there was a door, a machina door, wrapped in the Devil’s chains.” He looked to Iris, his eyes still sparkling with tears, but his gaze full of adoration. “Iris and I were able to remove the chains together. Then… the door opened.” 

He paused, uncertain, as if he still couldn’t believe the rest of the story. “What was behind the door?” Julian urged him, tenderly. Iris smiled encouragingly. 

Asra took a shaky breath. “My parents. It was the door to their personal gate. The Devil had bound them there, 18 years ago. Lucio imprisoned them, and the Devil tricked them; he had been drawing power from them the whole time they were trapped.” 

“So you freed them.” Julian murmured. “That’s amazing, Asra.” 

Asra nodded. “We did, eventually. But we had to venture further in to their gate. The Devil had trapped their familiars, too. They had been separated from them the whole time.” Julian’s face fell; Iris wondered if he felt the same tug she did, imagining Malak distraught and alone. “They took us to the forest where their familiars were imprisoned, but we were attacked by a spriggan, and Iris got hurt. My mother had to help my father, and I was fighting it alone, I couldn’t hold it off, it was going to kill me…” 

Asra turned to Iris now, his gaze reverent. “But Iris’s bargain… it protected me. It loaned me her magic, and I was able to defeat the spriggan. But my parents saw. I… we… had to explain… everything. My mother got upset, understandably, that I’d brought Iris back from the dead, that I’d given up half of my heart. I… I got angry with her, blamed them both. I let myself, my magic, get out of control, but Iris – Iris was able to talk me down. She drew the sword from my heart, broke the chains that ensnared me. She reminded me it wasn’t their fault, my fault, anyone’s fault. No one’s but the Devil’s.” He smiled weakly at Iris as he gripped her hand more tightly. “Then my mother figured out how Iris’s new power worked. She could cut down the chains that bound someone if they wanted to be freed. She used her power to free their familiars. Then we escaped just as the Devil collapsed the gate, into your dreams, Ilya.” 

He turned to Julian now, whose mouth was wide with shock. “To think that your parents were alive all this time… trapped by Lucio, by the Devil…” 

Asra smiled softly. “They’re free now. I… I can have them in my life again. It doesn’t seem real.” 

Iris squeezed his hand. “You can be a family again. We all can be a family.” Her smile was wide and watery as Asra turned to her, his gaze warm and adoring; he kissed her softly, his lips lingering, his breath shaky on her skin, before he pulled away and kissed Julian. 

“A family…” He whispered as he pulled away. “I never thought I would have that again.” Iris’s heart welled with sadness, with hope, as she nuzzled her forehead against his neck sweetly, her eyes catching with Julian’s. 

“We both saw your dreams, darling – the Moon sent us through together. But do you want to talk about them?” 

Julian shifted, a little uncomfortably. “The dreams you saw… they’re nightmares I have often, over and over again. I hear my own voice speaking to me, even when I’m awake. The horrible thoughts I have about myself, the feelings… the feelings I can’t control.” He swallowed heavily; he looked like he might cry, too. “The only thing that quiets them is when I’m with you. Both of you. Just the thought of you, your names, seems to send my demons running. And remembering all the ways I’ve let you both down… it feeds it… feeling powerless, useless, worthless… it feeds it…” 

Iris and Asra opened their arms to Julian, almost in unison, and he sank into their embrace. “I have to learn to stop feeding that darkness… the last three years, when I was alone, traveling the world, I tried… I tried so many times to die, drinking myself to oblivion, trying to… to drown myself, poison myself, let, let strangers have their way with me, but my gift kept bringing me back, a gift and a curse, taunting me…” 

Iris gasped softly, horrified, and pulled him even closer, her lips in his hair as she forced her tears back. Asra, at her side, buried his face in Julian’s neck; she could almost see the quiver of sobs in his shoulders. 

“But… being with you, Iris, having you both at my side… I don’t have to do it all alone. That the things I say to myself, they aren’t true…” Julian choked up, his voice soft. “That they never were…” 

Iris smiled against his scalp, the little tears welling in earnest now. “No, darling. They never were.” 

Asra spoke now, his voice soft and small. “I’m so sorry, Ilya. I never knew… not until… I’m sorry that I fed that darkness…” 

“It’s okay.” Julian murmured. “I forgive you, _med.”_ The sound Asra made was even smaller, choked, and he kissed Julian, kissed his tears away, left lingering caresses on his sharp cheekbones, his chiseled jaw. 

“You are so beautiful, Ilya, inside and out.” Asra whispered. “I love you.” 

Julian blinked at Asra, his face painted with absolute shock. “I love you too, Asra.” He responded slowly. “I… I’ve loved you for a long time. I never…” He laughed, like a held breath finally exhaled. “I didn’t think you would ever say that to me.” 

Asra chuckled softly. “I’ll have to be better about that.” He murmured, running his hand through Julian’s hair. “Expressing my love for you.” 

Iris’s heart swelled, and she pressed a kiss into Asra’s forehead, her body surging with pride. “We’ve all come so far.” She murmured, turning her gaze to Julian, who still had tears glistening in his eyes. “And we have each other. I feel like I can do anything with you two at my side.” 

“Hear, hear, Iris.” Julian crooned, kissing her. Asra just smiled, warmly, as he pressed his forehead into Iris’s, nuzzling her softly. The wind rippled through the grasses, whispering secrets to them, and the brook gurgled beside them. The sun’s light warmed them as they held each other, feeling soft, and safe, and loved, deeply, deeply loved.

*******

The day passed both quickly and slowly, surprising Iris; she expected it to be difficult to track the time in a realm where the sun never rose or set, but to her surprise, the sun drifted lower and lower on the horizon until the sky was shot through with carmine, peridot, tyrian purple, electric orange and daisy yellow. 

They’d elected to stay put in that little clearing by the water; Julian and Iris practiced her swordwork – he showed her how to hold it properly, to sheathe and unsheathe it safely, to strike and to parry, he stood behind her while she practiced the motions, his hands on her arms, guiding her, adjusting her posture, his voice low and steady in her ear – while Asra explored, bringing them back the spoils of his adventures: armfuls of wildflowers that he tucked behind Iris’s and Julian’s ears, fascinating stones and gemstones that dotted the banks of the stream, even the remains of animals, rabbit’s skulls, bird’s bones. Iris’s heart clenched when he showed them to her, placed them next to the wildflowers. Even here in the Sun’s realm, Death’s fingerprints were on everything, Iris thought with a soft well of her heart. 

They ate again, Asra bringing them more food from the Mearcstapa’s galley, lahmakun drizzled with sesame butter and scattered with dandelion greens he had foraged, before he wandered off to his solitude. When Iris and Julian got tired, they rested, their feet dipped in the cool running water as Iris showed Julian more spells, how to work with the flow of water (Julian struggled, just like she did, with the water spells – fire seemed to come much more naturally to them both), how to make the wildflowers that dotted the banks of the stream bloom riotously, how to soothe sore, worn muscles with heat directed to the palms (which Julian was _extremely_ good at – Iris, with a laugh, had wrenched her foot out of his hands, lest they get too distracted). 

When it was clear the sun would set, they called it a day, Iris sheathing the sword at her hip with a capable, sibilant ring of blade in scabbard; she was by no means a swordswoman, but she was much more confident with both blades after Julian’s careful coaching. They had both agreed that she should only use them as a last resort in a fight, her magic probably serving her better, but still, as Iris rested her thumb on the hilt of the longer of the two, she knew she would need them for the battles ahead. 

Even with the sun setting, the heat was relentless, and Iris and Julian were covered in sweat and dirt. They were stripping to bathe in the stream, Iris’s swords carefully laid down by the trunk of one of the tall oaks just as Asra returned to them – with a broad grin, he slipped off his billowing blouse and skirt, too, dancing both of them into the water, cold and bracing and delightful after a long day in the sun. 

This was where Iris was now, standing in the deepest part of the stream, up to her chest in the slow-running water. She let the currents wash over her, soothing her sore muscles, her tired bones, her sundrenched skin, with her feet planted firmly on the stony creekbed as she watched the sun dip lower and lower into the field of grasses, the sky above them growing ink dark, the full moon washing her wide face in the waning sunlight. 

Sturdy hands circled her her waist, a chest pressed against her back as a chin rested on her shoulder, warm, soft lips on her neck. She knew the touch before she even looked; Asra, his damp curls tickling her cheek. “Did you have a restful day, my heart?” He murmured in her ear, tracking her gaze to the setting sun. She turned to him, planting a little kiss on his ear, one hand coming up to ruffle his hair. 

“I wouldn’t call Julian giving me a daylong crash course in sword-fighting _restful_ , per say, but I’ll take it over nightmares, battling demons, and making deals with the Devil.” Iris said with a half-smirk. 

Asra laughed, kissing her cheek now. “There’s my girl.” He murmured against her skin, breathing deeply, inhaling the scent of her. She heard the soft trepidation that invaded his sigh and furrowed her brows. She knew what he was thinking. 

“We can’t stay here.” Iris whispered, and Asra hummed in assent. “I know time doesn’t pass here, but… we can’t waste this. I feel…” Her breath caught. “I feel it coming. Something. I can taste it on my tongue.” 

“No one is spared from Judgment, in the end.” Asra said softly, his lips on her ear now. 

Iris laughed softly. “We had our own little Judgment today, didn’t we? Forgiveness and absolution. Healing deep wounds, sharing the struggle.” 

“We did.” Asra agreed so quietly it was almost lost in the murmuring of the water. “Because of you, Iris. You were the one who lead us through the Moon’s realm. Without you, we’d both still be lost. There would be no light in this pain.” 

Iris smiled softly, sadly, turning in Asra’s arms so they were facing each other, Iris winding her arms around his neck. Their naked chests were pressed together, and Iris could feel the soft strain of his muscles against the gentle currents of the stream as it split over his back, as they kissed, and kissed, and kissed. 

“Compassion was what got me through the Moon’s realm.” Iris murmured when they relinquished their kiss. “Compassion, and love. If I know any of those things, I learned them in part because of you. Because you loved me, Asra. You both loved me. Love me still.” 

Asra’s hands swam up to Iris’s cheeks, drawing her gaze to his. “Every day you astonish me, Iris.” His voice, low and steeped, heavy, made Iris ache. “If we get through this, it will be because of you. Your light.” 

Iris kissed him again. “We’ll figure it out together. All three of us.” 

Asra smiled against her lips, his mouth opening to say something, but a splash of cold water burst over them, Julian’s booming laughter echoing through the little dell as Asra gasped and Iris shrieked, then laughed. 

“You brat!” She panted, her breath wild with cold and shock, but Asra was quicker, lunging after Julian as he swam away skillfully, grabbing at his ankles. Then they were splashing each other at the shallower banks, up to their waists, their playful shouts making Iris smile fondly as she sank back into the water, submerging her head, rubbing her scalp and washing her face. When she broke through the surface just a minute later, slicking her short hair back around her ears, the air around her was deathly still. 

Heart racing, she whipped around, searching for her lovers, the silence alighting her every nerve with panic, but they were exactly where they’d been, still up to their waists in the shallows; they were kissing, Julian’s hands in Asra’s now-drenched hair, Asra’s nails dragging expertly down Julian’s back, earning him a heated, visible shiver. Iris watched them curiously, her gaze growing heavy as a little fire ignited in her belly, only to be stoked when Julian suddenly wound his arms around Asra’s hips and lifted him as if he weighed nothing, Asra’s legs wrapping around Julian’s hips greedily, needfully. Julian carried Asra out of the stream, never breaking their kiss, depositing him carefully on the blanket, his lithe, long, stark body arched over Asra’s as his fingers wound again in the magician’s hair. 

Iris approached them slowly, carefully, her body cutting silently through the flowing water as Asra dug his nails sharply into Julian’s lower back, eliciting a little cry as he rolled the now-flushed doctor over; Asra was straddling Julian’s waist now, a devious smirk splitting his gorgeous features as Julian stared up at him with hazy gray eyes, his bottom lip sunk between his teeth. Iris couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she heard the soft purr of Asra’s voice, a gentle moan from Julian as Asra traced the slope of his chiseled jaw, grasping his cheeks with one hand, the other trailing down his chest as Julian wound his hands around Asra’s sturdy thighs. 

She stepped out of the stream, smiling coyly now, the water running down her waist, her bare legs as Asra leaned down and kissed Julian, his tongue slipping playfully between desperately parted lips; knowingly, he opened his eyes and glanced back at Iris, who knelt on the blanket, lips parted softly, her gaze liquid, the slip already spreading between her legs. He smirked against Julian’s mouth and pulled away, and Julian followed, searching heatedly for Asra’s kiss before letting his dark eyelashes flutter open, his gaze following Asra’s to Iris. 

“What do you think, Ilya?” Asra asked nonchalantly, grinning impishly. “Do you want Iris to watch? Or do you want to touch her while I make you come?” 

Iris’s heart throbbed and her sex surged as Julian moaned pitifully. “I want to touch…” 

“Is that how you ask, honey?” Asra’s voice was low and cool, but his expression was tender, even as he gently squeezed Julian’s cheeks, the pad of his palm pressing a little under the chin, forcing the sinew in his creamy neck to strain. 

Julian sighed with pleasure; he was already hard and throbbing. “Please, Asra… let me – let me touch her...” 

“Oh, so good, honey, so good...” Asra murmured, turning to Iris, pupils dilating even further at the sight of her on her knees beside him. He grasped Julian’s hand on his thigh and placed it on Iris’s navel as she laid down beside Julian, claiming his mouth for herself, kissing him slow and sweet as he hummed with bliss behind his lips. His fingers trailed down Iris’s soft belly as Asra resituated, laying on his side between Julian’s parted legs. The magician traced his clever tongue up the cut of slender hips, planting a soft kiss on the swell of Iris’s thigh as it wound around Julian’s leg before nipping the taut muscle below. 

Julian whined quietly into Iris’s mouth, his fingers slinking down her mound to her vulva; he gasped desperately before moaning, “ _Mokra... tako si mokar..._ ” as he petted the slick, velvety skin he found there, reverently, longingly. Iris returned his moan, pressing her pelvis a little into his hand, urging him on. 

“I like it when you speak Nivenese.” She teased as desire surged in her core. “What does that mean?” 

Julian inhaled sharply, shakily, and Iris glanced sidelong at Asra, whose eyes were absolutely wicked through his eyelashes, his curls, as he took Julian’s entire length into his mouth, down his throat. Julian’s other hand carded through Asra’s damp hair, pushing it out of his eyes, as he whispered to Iris, “Wet… it means… you’re so wet, darling…” He groaned now as he parted her labia, stroking the pad of his brother finger against her swollen clit. 

“I like watching you two.” She murmured, her breath catching as Julian found the spot that made her toes curl. “It turned me on.” Julian had no words in response, just a heated sigh, the arch of his back as Asra dragged his teeth teasingly up the cock in his mouth; Iris pressed her lips against Julian’s, and there was no more talking as he did just what she liked, the pulse of his fingertip against her, the nerves firing over and over until her shoulders shook, until she arched her back and whimpered, her fingernails scraping against his scalp. 

Julian was having a hard time focusing on Iris; Asra was working him over, one hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, the other stroking his perineum, all in tandem with his hot, silky tongue. It didn’t help that Asra kept teasing him, getting him close to close before pulling off to nip at the inside of Julian’s shaking legs, swirl his tongue around the balls and up the seam, drag his fingernails down the tops of Julian’s thighs. Julian began to roll his hips into Asra’s mouth, trying to push himself over the edge, but Asra chuckled and relinquished him with a pop. 

“You know what I’m waiting for, Ilya.” He murmured as he lazily, tortuously pumped Julian with his hand. “Don’t leave our love wanting.” 

With a whine, Julian turned to Iris with renewed vigor, increasing his pace frenetically as she pressed closer to him, her teeth gritted as she panted. When she came, it was like the sunrise, blooming slowly but powerfully through her as she softly groaned, “Oh, Ilya, oh, darling,” and ground her hips against his hand, his leg. 

Asra watched through lidded eyes, sucking Julian back down as soon as he heard Iris’s voice, high and tight and sweet, cut through the sunset; it wasn’t long before Julian was coming too, his throaty, ecstatic cries mingling with Iris’s as he brought her down with soft kisses on her jaw, her neck, the corners of her mouth. 

Asra released Julian with a soft pop and sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth and looking at both his lovers, panting and reeling from their orgasm. He crawled next to Iris with the grace of a cat, wrapping his hands around her waist, his lips in her ear. “Do you have another one in you, my heart?” He whispered as his warm palm snaked down her meridian, her ribs, her navel, her mound, before his fingers parted her and she arched her back against him with a surprised little cry, her body responding beautifully to his touch. Even though she was still sensitive, still reeling from her release, it built up again in her quickly, her hips bucking back against Asra’s, against the heat of his erection, as the coil tightened inside her. 

Julian watched Asra touch her with lidded eyes, still flushed; Iris caught his eye, and bit her lip as Asra dragged his fingertips over her swollen bud, drawing her closer and closer to the precipice. With a soft, delicious hum, Julian lifted his hand to his mouth, leisurely licking his soaked fingers clean without breaking his gaze from Iris’s. She squirmed with pleasure, and with a strained, choked whimper, she came again, just as Asra was pressing his fingers into her, curling them against the delicious little bloom of nerves inside her. 

“Iris...” He moaned as she clenched around him, as he slowed the pressure of his thumb against her pleasure; she giggled softly, pressing her head back against his shoulder, and he leaned down to kiss her, his tongue swirling wildly, needfully, with hers. She could still taste Julian on his tongue, salty and musty and strong, as Julian cupped her breast, gently rubbing the peaked nipple with a wet thumb, helping ease her down as her vision righted and her hips stilled. 

Then Asra was sitting up, pulling Iris into his lap, her back flush with his chest. “Iris, is this…?” He breathed into her ear, arranging her so she was straddling his thighs, spread against the hardness of his cock; an ache shot through Iris and she whined softly, nodded wildly. Asra purred against her neck, the sound vibrating through her as the grasses around them swayed and shimmered in the purple light of the barrier spell. 

He reached down between her legs and grabbed himself, rubbing his velvety head against her clitoris once, twice, three times, making her arch and whimper, before he squared up against her, slipping just the head in with a delighted grunt. Iris, her hands planted on his thighs in front of her, eased herself down on him with a roll of her neck, a blissful sigh; he grasped her hip with one hand, traced her ribs, her breast, with another. 

Then, for many, many heated minutes, it was just movement, and noise, and touch, Iris grinding her hips back against Asra’s lap as Julian watched them and touched himself back to hardness. Asra’s hot breath swirled in her ear, his voice choked and beautiful as he murmured to her, “Gods, you’re so gorgeous, Iris, so perfect, your cunt is so perfect...” He nipped at her shoulder, ran his tongue around her ear, kissed the long, arched length of her neck; she had both her hands in his hair, now, her pace increasing as she heard his breath stutter needfully, as he started to pump up into her. 

Then, with a tremulous moan, he pulled out, his hand on her hip wrapping around to pump himself to his release, but Julian was quicker, swatting Asra’s hand away as he slipped his mouth over the tip, sucking so hard his cheeks furrowed; with a little shout, accompanied by a pleased groan from Julian, a satisfied purr from Iris, Asra came. 

Julian didn’t even have a moment to wipe the wet from his lips before Iris was clambering into his lap, casting the barrier spell on him as Asra collapsed backwards onto his elbows, panting with ecstasy. She smirked as she took Julian’s cock in her hand and pumped slowly, and he quivered, his shoulders, his hands, as he wrapped his hands around her hips, drawing her down with him as he laid on his back, their chests pressed together as she rolled her hips against his. 

“Just Nivenese, okay?” She murmured, before guiding him into her. 

“ _Draga..._ ” He moaned as he sank into her heat, dropping his head back, his neck flung long. “ _Da, draga..._ ”

Iris chuckled softly. “I’m guessing that’s a yes…?” She rocked herself against him, hard; he flushed and screwed his eyes shut as he worried his lip between his teeth. Iris groaned deeply, at his length, at his strength as he wrapped his hands around her hips and guided her forward and back. 

“Talk to me, darling.” Iris whispered into his ear, fingers curling through his hair; Julian groaned, before responding in kind, his words stammered and gasped, hot and labored. 

“ _Ti si izvrstan, Iris… Mogao bih provesti cijeli svoj život ovdje…_ ” 

“Oh, Ilya, I like that...” Iris bit her lip at the sound of his mother tongue, so desperate and breathless, held his gaze as he panted. She leaned back and planted her hands on the flexing, taut muscles of his stomach, arching her back as she ground down into him. “M-more? Please?” 

Julian cried out at the change of angle, at Iris’s voice, pleading yet tinged with authority; then he was babbling, Iris didn’t know if they were words or nonsense, but she didn’t care. One of his hands snaked under her, his fingers expertly swirling against her exposed clit, making her keen softly as she rocked against him, orgasm swelling again in her hips, half-built by her lovemaking with Asra, the heat coiling in her belly dangerously. 

“ _Ti si raj... čini da se osjećam beskonačno, Iris, draga, oh..._ ” Julian bit his lip hard and grunted as Iris came undone and sighed out her release; she dragged her fingernails down his stomach as the void swam through her, swam through every vein, every nerve, pulsing with every muscle, caressing him with each rolling wave of pleasure.

“ _Volim te..._ ” He whined, voice drenched with bliss as he rode out her orgasm. “ _Volim te, jako te volim, draga..._ ” His hips stuttered as Iris still rocked against him; he grabbed her hips and gripped her hard, his back arching. “ _Nastavi, nemojte stati... oh, s-s-sranje…_ ” 

Iris leaned down and kissed him, kissed him as he came with a series of beautiful, ecstatic whimpers, his hands smoothing up her back, grabbing her shoulders, pulling her closer to him. “So good, my darling...” She murmured, pressing her forehead to his, his eyes fluttering open, foggy and unfocused. They gazed into each other for a moment, both panting softly, kissing wetly, hotly as they both came back down. Then warm hands were at the small of Iris’s back as Asra sank down beside Julian, pressing a kiss into his cheek before pulling Iris into his arms, kissing her deeply. 

They laid together, the three of them, their limbs tangled, Iris nuzzled into Asra’s chest, her leg wrapped around Julian’s hips, her hand on his chest, Julian’s lips in Asra’s hair, his graceful hand on her back, rubbing small circles there. The sun still hadn’t set fully; Iris realized that night here would be an unending, ecstatic sunset, the sky rioting and bleeding color until morning. 

“We should go back in the morning.” She whispered. “Call the Sun down, have him send us home. I think we’ve found what we need here.” 

Julian groaned softly, dipping down to kiss the top of Iris’s head. “Are you sure we can’t stay here forever?” 

Asra chuckled softly; the sound rumbled pleasantly in Iris’s ear, and she felt the vibration in her own chest. “It’s tempting, isn’t it?” He agreed, his fingers liquidly tracing up the curve of Iris’s spine before intertwining with Julian’s elegant, musician’s hands. “But an existence here would be hollow. Purgatory.” He bit his lips. “Like my parents’ imprisonment.” 

Iris turned to Julian, her eyes soft and liquid. “And we have a higher purpose to fulfill.” She traced the sharpness of his jaw, the hollow of his cheekbones. “We have all we need, right here.” 

“I know, darling.” He murmured, and Iris could feel his heart race a little under her arm. “I’m still… worried. Afraid.” 

“You would be crazy not to be afraid.” Asra responded, looking up at the riotous sky, the inky dark pierced with stars. “I’m scared, too.” 

So am I.” Iris whispered. “But I also believe the Universe didn’t bring us here to fail. I have to believe we’ll succeed. Despite the fear. Hope, love… it has to be more powerful than our fear.” 

Julian sighed, contentedly, snuggling closer to both of them. “I know. You’re right, darling.” 

They were still; over the rise and fall of Julian’s chest, Iris could see the stream, winking in the moonlight from one side of the sky, painted in every color of the rainbow from the sunset. Just as Asra’s steady breath in her ear, the susurrus of the wind, the soft laughter of the water, was lulling Iris into welcome sleep, there was a rustling. The grasses parted on the other side of the stream, and a doe stepped out of the wheat, her downy, russet coat, speckled with snow white and sable black, lustrous and shimmering, like a dream. 

Iris gasped softly, and Asra twitched, Julian grunted, a question, but Iris shushed them quietly. “Look.” She whispered, lifting her chin up almost imperceptibly. The doe didn’t startle, instead dipping her muzzle into the water, drinking contentedly. 

Asra lifted his head to look, and Julian turned; together, they watched the deer, all holding their breath, all feeling gently, startlingly, acutely alive with wonder.

A horrible, earsplitting shriek of metal on metal tore the silence asunder; the deer startled, skittered, was gone one graceful leap as the ground underneath it split, cleaved through by a whirring golden door, the machina working in its frame threaded through with ominous red light. 

Iris gasped and sat up, recognizing it instantly. “Asra.” She whispered urgently, but he was alert, too, his arm wrapping around her protectively as he propped himself up on his elbow. He felt it too. Something was wrong, horribly wrong. Julian tensed just as the horrible sound ripped through the air again, and the golden door was wrenched open, ripped half off its hinges; the other side of the door was gashed through with deep, violent clawmarks. 

The world across the threshold was hazy with smoke, wild with uncanny noises of revelry that turned Iris’s stomach, but the figure that loomed in the doorframe was unmistakable, alighting her every nerve with disgust. Lucio strode haughtily through the door, slamming it shut so violently that it made Iris jump; he chuckled softly, his lip rising into an imperious sneer as he surveyed the scene in front of him. 

“Oh dear, it seems I’m interrupting.” He simpered, his expression absolutely animal before he lunged at them. 

Lucio plowed through the stream like it was vapor, like it was nothing, his face split with an inhuman snarl, his still-crimson eyes bulging. Iris’s mind screamed at her to move, but every muscle was frozen, her body rooted in the spot, every nerve sizzling with panic; if Asra hadn’t cast a shield, if Julian hadn’t wrapped his arm around her shoulders and yanked her up, onto her feet and behind him, Lucio surely would have had her neck between his clawed fingers. 

Asra’s shield glowed and splintered with devastating lilac light as Lucio smashed loudly, sickeningly against it; he ricocheted back into the stream as Asra grimaced at the impact. Lucio purred with amusement as he landed on one knee, skidding back through the bank with strange grace, his gauntleted hand slicing thick gashes through the stony soil. 

“A threesome at the end of the world.” He crooned in his nasal drawl; Iris was suddenly very aware of their nakedness, of the spill trailing down her leg. “How quaint… not that I blame you. If I thought I’d never get my dick wet again, I’d be rutting in the dirt like an animal, too.” 

The sneer in Asra’s voice was palpable, sending a chill down Iris’s spine. “How did you even get here, Lucio?” 

Lucio cackled now. “Well, _someone_ released the Devil’s imprisoned magicians; it caused quite a scandal at the masquerade.” He stood, the stream only coming up to his mid-calves, flexing the fingers of his alchemical claw subconsciously. “And the Devil was hopping mad. But they were easy for me to track, with this.” 

Asra tensed visibly, and Iris made to step forward, but Julian outstretched his arm in front of her instinctually, his brow dark, his face twisted into a vicious scowl. The movement caught Lucio’s gaze – his eyes quickly darted to the huddled figures behind Asra, and he chuckled cruelly. 

“Do you think you can protect your pretty fool now, Jules?” Iris could count his teeth, his sneer was so wide, so brutal. “You certainly couldn’t save her before.” 

“Fuck you, Lucy.” It was not Julian, but Asra who responded. “ _How_ did you get here?” 

One nostril flared as Lucio raised his golden arm; all three of them lurched, Iris’s magic glowing, opalescent, at her fingertips, Asra’s shield flaring – in periphery, Iris saw Julian’s gaze flit behind her, almost imperceptibly, to the swords on the ground by the oak, several paces away, too far to lunge for. 

Lucio chuckled again, and pointed to the door; the symbols glowed maniacally, wildly red. “The Devil’s prisoners were the magicians who made this arm for me. When I found them, huddled in the slums like stray dogs, I found this door, too. They’d made it, just like my arm; it brought me here, straight to you.” He smirked. “The Universe is not on your side tonight, it seems. Your disappearance put quite the wrench in the Devil’s plans. He’ll be extremely pleased when I return you three to him… but not after I have my way with you first…” 

“How could you have possibly worked such a complex magical construct?” Asra asked quietly, the hatred in his voice even and chilly, though something in it sent a curious quiver through Iris’s spine. Was he...stalling? 

She squeezed the back of Julian’s arm, a warning, just as Lucio’s eyes glinted with sick amusement, and something that Iris had only seen in one of her memories – satisfaction. “The Fool’s body is powerful; now I can use that power.” He outstretched his arm towards the three of them, and the air around them warped, sucking in horribly. 

Asra’s shield held at the onslaught as the force of Lucio’s borrowed magic poured over them, but little cracks were starting to appear on the fringes of the bubble as sweat beaded at Asra’s neck, the small of his back. Lucio growled, and lunged again; Iris grabbed Julian’s arm, pulling him back just in time. 

Asra shattered the shield just as Lucio’s gauntleted claws bounced of it in a shower of golden sparks, sending both him and Lucio flying; Lucio landed heavily on his back on the stony creekbed, knocking the wind out of him. Asra was able to land on his feet, but he stumbled forward; Iris rushed to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, lending him some of her magic. There was a sound, Lucio’s horrible hacking as his breath spun back into him, and a whoosh of air behind them; Julian had summoned both of the swords to him, hands outstretched and thrumming with magic. 

Asra gritted his teeth as he turned to Iris. “He brought the body with him.” He whispered urgently. 

Iris furrowed her brow. “What? How?” 

Asra shook his head – not now. “I have a plan. But I need time.” 

Iris nodded once, firmly, looking back to Julian; he tossed the shorter of the swords to her, the longer already unsheathed in his hand. 

She stood, her knees shaking, but unsheathed her sword with a hiss as Asra scrambled away, bounding over the water towards the door. “Hey, Lucy!” she bellowed. “Get your nasty goat ass out of my body!” 

It worked like a charm; Lucio’s face twisted into a petulant grimace, wheeling to her with wild eyes. “ _YOUR_ body? This is _my_ body. Your pathetic lovesick boyfriend _stole it_.” He practically shrieked, the veins in his forehead popping as his face reddened. He stood, and made to lunge, but Iris was quicker, her magic already arcing hotly, angrily through her body; with sweeping, slashing gesture, the stream froze, encasing Lucio’s shins in ice. 

Lucio bellowed and clawed wildly at the ice, magic sparking uselessly from his gauntlet as he tried to wrench his legs free. Then, the tip of a sword was pressed to his neck; Julian, wielding Iris’s sword effortlessly, stood in front of Lucio in the water, his beautiful face sliced through with a disdainful scowl. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t run you through right now.” Julian growled. 

Lucio laughed coldly, the sound brittle and harsh, like crystal shattering. “That’s cute, Jules. You’re too soft. You couldn’t hurt anyone if you tried, the same way the little slut couldn’t keep her legs together if her life depended on it.” 

The knife-edge of the sword pressed into Lucio’s neck, drawing a bead of blood. “And you don’t know how to keep your mouth shut.” Julian snarled. “Watch your tongue or I’ll rip it out of you.”

Lucio’s laugh boomed as he broke through the ice, finally figuring out how to use his magic to melt it. Julian parried two swipes of Lucio’s claw, only to have his human hand catch him right under the sternum, sending him sprawling to the ground, the sword skittering across the rocks. Lucio was on him with inhuman speed, his human hand clawed firmly around Julian’s neck, the weight of his hips pressed into Julian’s ribs. 

“That’s more like it, isn’t it, Jules?” He mocked Julian as he grasped feebly at Lucio’s fingers, his chest; he even landed a hook across Lucio’s face, the sound echoing horribly through the grassy dell, but Lucio didn’t even bat an eyelash as he rounded his gaze back to Julian’s face, contorted with pain, with fear. “You always begged to play this game, didn’t you? And if you were good, well… how could I say no to that face when it was swallowing my cock so well?” 

“That’s enough!” Iris yelled, summoning another spell, a ferocious gust of wind that threw Lucio onto his back against the grasses. Iris rushed to Julian, who was coughing wretchedly, laid a hand on his shoulder as Lucio recovered, glaring at Iris. 

“Can’t stand a little dirty talk, Iris?” He simpered. “I know that’s not true. The things I heard while wandering the palace, searching for my body… how many times did you let Jules and Asra bed you?” 

Iris glanced sidelong at Asra, who was running his hands over the frantically blinking symbols around the door’s frame, his brows knit in concentration. Her gaze snapped back to Lucio. 

“Is that what you like, Lucy?” She purred, pressing her lips together slowly before parting them, wetting them with her tongue. “To watch from the corners? While someone else gets all the pleasure in the world from a body that should have been yours?” 

Lucio’s snarl turned ferocious again, the veins popping on his forehead as he stood. “I would have taken what was rightfully mine years ago if I _had the body that was promised to me._ ” He practically screamed as he outstretched his gauntleted arm; Iris gasped as icy-hot black chains encircled her wrists, her waist, her ankles. She cried out in wretched pain as the fiery metal blinded her in agony, dragging her down to her knees. 

There was a grunt of pain beside her; Julian was wrenched down with chains, too, his face twisted into a grimace of agony as Lucio approached Iris, his clawed hand winding under her chin. 

“You had your chance.” He growled quietly, so quietly that Iris could barely hear. “You had your chance to have this the way you wanted it. Now, I’m going to take what I want.” 

Iris whimpered as his gauntleted hand forced her chin up, their eyes meeting; the sclera of his sickened eyes was even more horrifying up close, boring into her with savage hunger. “Ravaging you before I turn you in to the Devil...” He hissed. “...will be a most glorious retribution.” 

Iris cringed as his horrible lips pressed to hers, drawing her chin up into his; she glanced sideways to Asra, who, too, was struggling against chains that bound him down as the door flashed in front of him, huffing almost impatiently, steam billowing from the machina as it awaited his command. 

With a deep exhale, she focused her energy on Asra, giving him her power as Lucio overcame her, pushing his body forcefully into her fetters; she could feel his chest pressing against her breasts, his cold hands slowly tracing up her sides as the chains slid from Asra’s body just meters away. Asra glanced to her, his gaze reddening with fury as he watched Lucy fondle her, as Julian struggled futilely, ferociously, against his bonds. 

Iris watched in horror as Asra’s eyes glowed lilac-white; then his palms blossomed with blood, crimson flowing down his arms as he reached for the doorframe, smearing his hands across the symbols. With a howling groan, the portal sprang open; from the other side of the door, Iris could see the shimmering pools of Asra’s gate. Asra turned back to Iris, just as Lucio’s nostrils flared, lifted, and he turned to the point of Iris’s gaze. His imperious eyes fell on Asra, on his hands awash in red, on the gate flung open in front of him, and hissed wildly; it was then that Iris called her power to her, the chains falling away from her limbs as she lunged forward and decked Lucio in the temple. 

Lucio fell backwards and Iris drew the sword across her body and sliced through Julian’s chains; with a metallic screech, they swam easily away from his body. Then Iris was swept up in his arms, he was carrying her through the water as Asra held the portal open, his still-glowing eyes trained warily on Lucio as the Count reeled back, clutching his head. 

Lucio turned to the three of them just as Julian was crossing the threshold, throwing his gaze back over his shoulder – Iris saw Lucio’s eyes widen as all three of them caught his panicked gaze before the door slammed shut behind them, Asra guiding them through the portal into his gate. 

“We don’t have much time.” He gasped, his hand falling instinctually on Julian’s back, smearing blood across his skin, urging him along as they sprinted across the sandy stretch of the oasis. “If his arm allows him to open the portal...” 

“What’s your plan?” Iris asked breathlessly, squirming in Julian’s grasp; he didn’t let her down, only clutching her more tightly to his chest. 

Asra inhaled sharply, his gaze trailing wildly over the pools that dotted the sandy landscape of his oasis. “If Lucy brought your body with him… we might be able to force him to give it up. There’s a pool here, one that I’ve never used before. The black pool, the one that leads to the void between realms; Lucio was once trapped there.” 

Iris inhaled sharply. “He won’t be able to sustain a body there.” 

“Exactly.” Asra hissed just as the door behind them was wrenched open with a terribly squeal of metal on metal; Asra and Julian turned back only to see Lucio, red in the face, burst angrily through the portal, the door hanging precariously on its hinges. 

Asra turned to Julian. “Take Iris to the black pool. I’ll bring him to you.” He hissed, his hand falling on the muscular swell of Julian’s arm, another smear of blood. “Protect her.” Quickly, urgently, he pressed his lips to Julian’s, feverish in their heat, before he scrambled back towards Lucio. 

“ASRA!” Iris shrieked as Julian sprinted away, practically leaping over the shimmering pools that dotted the landscape as Iris craned her neck over Julian’s shoulder, Asra and Lucio clashing now, horrible red magic arching against snowy lavender-white. 

“Ilya, we can’t…!” Iris panted, clutching to him; Julian kept his pace, his breath spinning up from his lungs in hot gasps.

“Trust Asra.” He breathed, his eyes darting across the landscape of the gate. “Have you ever seen this pool?” 

Iris shook her head frantically, as her eyes scanned the horizon; she caught wind of not a sight, of putrid black smoke, but a feeling, a deep, heartwrenching uneasiness: a pool as dark as a starless night. “Wait. Over there.” She pointed, and Julian quickly turned towards it, his brows shifting; behind them, there was a horrible crash, a splintering of wood and sand. 

Asra’s voice rose through the swirling clouds of his oasis, amplified by his magic: “Lucio, when did you get so slow?” 

“You insolent BRAT!” Lucio screamed, his voice shrill and livid. “How did you work that door!?” 

Asra’s voice was mocking, laughing, as it echoed through the desert behind them. “The door wasn’t the only thing those magicians made…” 

Julian reached the pool in record time, his chest heaving as they arrived at its banks; unlike the rest of the pools in Asra’s realm, it was covered with a thick layer of dark ice, ringed with tall, papery birches and a fine dusting of powdery snow. With a soft exhale, he let Iris down out of his arms, only for her to take his hand. 

“We have to cross.” She said urgently, quietly, her clairvoyance arcing through her as she pulled him onto the pool’s surface. “Don’t be scared.” The ice was solid, not even groaning under their light feet as they sprinted across; Asra and Lucio were fast approaching, despite Asra’s best attempts at fighting Lucio back. 

Once they reached the edge of the pool, Iris turned to him, grabbing both Julian’s hands. “Darling, I need your help. Lend me your magic.” Julian furrowed his brows, uncertain, but in a moment of passion, leaned forward and kissed her; their magic bloomed together, shimmering and tinged a deep, passionate fuschia. The pool swelled and stretched to nearly four times its size, drastically increasing the distance between them and Lucio. 

“Do you really think a little ice will keep you from me?” Lucio bellowed as he turned to the two of them, his scarlet eyes blazing as Asra pummeled him with sheet after jagged sheet of ice and water, all deflected with skillful parries from his gauntlet. 

Iris did the only thing she could think to do. She turned back to him, locking eyes with him haughtily across the pool before she laughed, heartily, mockingly, loudly, so it rang sonorously over the water. 

Lucio bristled, his imperious posture buckling with fury – he shoved Asra out of his way with an inelegant turn of his golden wrist, stepping onto the edge of the thin ice with only a tentative flicker of his gaze. 

Asra outstretched his bloody hand to Lucio just as Julian drew Iris’s sword again, but Lucio’s crimsoned eyes glistened just as he clasped his gauntlet into a fist; Julian and Asra both crumpled to the ground with helpless grunts, crossed over and over with night-black chains; more chains, coiled viciously like cobras, shot up at Iris but wavered and bounced away, burrowing back into the snow as harmlessly as rabbits. Lucio’s eyes widened, the red of the sclera ringing the frightening pale of his irises – he wasn’t expecting that. 

She let her lips curl into a twisted sneer, her white teeth showing. “Not so fearless without the Devil’s power at your back, are you, Lucy?” She growled, her voice ringing over the pool. “Why don’t you come and get me?” 

“Iris, no!” Asra screamed at the pool’s bank, his gaze frantic as Lucio stepped further onto the ice. Iris met him, two steps onto the groaning, slippery pool; it didn’t seem to be affected by her weight, but under Lucio’s, heavy with the Fool’s body, it bowed, creaking ominously. 

Lucio sneered lividly as Iris approached him on the dark ice. “You’re certainly brave, for the wench who caused all this pain.” 

Iris let out a single, barking laugh, reminiscent of Julian’s. “How do you figure, Lucy?” She took another step across the pool’s surface, the ice holding under her ethereal weight. 

Lucio laughed disdainfully. “I know for a fact you’re not that dull, Iris.” He practically purred, even as the ice shifted around him as he took another step. “Do you think Asra and Jules would have suffered this much if you hadn’t flounced into their lives, shaking your tits and ass and batting your eyelashes in their direction?” 

Iris giggled cruelly even as her heart clenched, as she took another step, as the ice groaned under her bare feet. She realized, with a jolt, that the pool was perfectly round, the dark ice pocked like a new moon; long, languid shapes, like shadows, like snakes, slithered beneath the surface, pressing their smooth bodies against the surface. “You think I did this?” She jeered, her voice inked in mocking, even as she shook, remembering her horrible dreams. 

Lucio’s lips lifted into a leer that struck Iris’s heart with chills. “All this is your fault, pretty fool.” He practically hissed. “If you hadn’t enchanted Asra… if you hadn’t seduced Jules… I would have gotten my body those three years ago.” He was sneering, his face twisted in an animal snarl, as he took another step; he barely noticed when the ice bowed under his heavy feet. “If you hadn’t been so entrancing, Jules wouldn’t have sacrificed himself for you, and I could have had you for myself. If you hadn’t made Asra fall in love with you, I could have been rid of you long, long ago.” His grimace was wild, animal now. “All this suffering, Asra’s, Julian’s, all because you wouldn’t submit to me. My power, my reign, my _life_ … all lost, because of you – the delicious little cunt that felled an entire empire.”

Iris felt the anger boil up in her, her magic crackling from her every pore. “That’s fucking rich, Lucy. If you weren’t such a horrible, selfish man, none of us would have suffered!” She practically shouted. “Asra’s exile… his _childhood_ … you _raped_ Ilya…you raped _Nadia_ …you tortured Muriel, imprisoned him for three years for your amusement… you tried to rape _me_ , steal my magic from me, to strongarm me into sleeping with you… and thousands, _thousands_ of people died a horrible, excruciating death and you didn’t even fucking care!” 

The laugh that echoed across the pool now was sickening, caustic cackling. “Jules, Noddy, Muri, Asra… they all made _choices_ , Iris, just like you did. Some of those choices were made for your sake, even.” Lucio’s grin was wide, wild, forged in desperation. “And the plague wasn’t my fault. Nothing you’ve said was _ever_ my fault.” He took another wobbly step onto the ice, a strange caricature, his hulking body hunched and hesitant even as his expression was painted with nonchalant confidence. 

Iris screamed with frustration, her rage echoing through the oasis as she pointed her sword at Lucio. “You don’t even feel bad!” She shouted, tears in her eyes, her face contorted with hatred. “You caused all this pain, all this suffering, all this trauma, and you don’t care. You’re a monster – you’re a monster and you don’t even _care_ that you’re a monster!” 

If Lucio had a response to this, other than the terrified widening of his pale, bloodied eyes, Iris would never know. With a hair-raising crack, an echoing groan, the ice spiderwebbed and shattered beneath them, plunging them both into bone-chilling, unfathomable depths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> .... _Oh._
> 
> See you in Sun 2.


	8. The Sun, Part 2: We Could Be Your Sanctuary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sunny Day Real Estate - Grendel // Kishi Bashi - Marigolds**
> 
> _CW: Fighting and violence, blood and gore, choking, breath play, killing and death, beheading, domestic violence, emotional/psychological abuse, physical abuse, MCD_

Iris awoke nude and cocooned in white satin sheets, sprawled out on her stomach, her head cradled in her arms. Groggy, vision swirling, she raised her head, squinting at the warm, undulating light that the candles flung around the vaulted room. The mattress was so soft and luxurious, the bed so impossibly large; Iris rolled over and spread out all her limbs, stretching luxuriantly. And then she sat up like she had been electrocuted; she knew this room, this bed. Lucio’s bedchambers.

Yet, it was different, she realized as her breath settled; the portraits were gone, and there were more bookshelves, the books softer, worn, well-loved, the spines broken. Rather than the rich, velvety reds of Lucio’s chamber, there was an almost cacophonous tapestry of color, indigo, purple, blue and green, Seong panels, colorful Rostam carpets, Kirati scrolls, Kush embroidered pillows, Nuru baskets. On the walls were paintings of lush landscapes – Vesuvia’s cityscape, the rolling wheat fields, the chapel of cedars, the cinnamon forests and the orange groves, the seaside, the Najwa desert. At the desk, someone sat hunched over their work in a simple but elegant dressing robe of gray silk – it was too dark to make out any of their features, even with the lantern burning brightly on the desktop. Iris could only tell it was a man, thin and wiry and well-formed. 

There was a groan, low, deep, satisfied, at Iris’s side; she turned lazily to the sound, and her heart nearly froze over in horror. It was Lucio, completely naked, his long limbs tangled in the slinky contours of the bedsheets. He was young, so young, younger than Iris was now; his was face unlined, softer, fuller through the cheeks, his light hair thicker and more lustrous. With a gentle wince, almost endearing, he sat up on his elbows – both his arms were whole, flesh, muscled. “Som?” He murmured into the dark, his voice soft with sleep. 

The shape at the desk turned back to him gently; it was an older man, handsome and stately, his skin molasses-dark and lined around the eyes, the mouth, with years and years of laughter, of kindness. His black hair fell, long and silky, streaked through with gray and white, over taut shoulders, a poised back. “Montag.” His voice was steeped in fondness, sweetness; Iris furrowed her brows at the unfamiliar name, but it fell easily from his lips as he looked over the languid shape in the bed. “I thought you’d sleep longer.” 

Lucio groaned, sinking back into the sheet with a thump. “What time…?” 

“Almost time.” The man replied with a chuckle, neatly organizing the papers on his desk, filing some away, placing the rest squarely on the center of the desk – a meticulous, well-practiced ritual. “The Courtiers expect us on the hour.” He turned back to Lucio with a darkness, a hot, sweet, liquid darkness in his eyes. “But we have enough time. I don’t mind making them wait a little.” 

Lucio snorted softly, but his eyelids fluttered as his pupils dilated; he arranged himself in the sheets, perhaps subconsciously, to accentuate the swell of his muscular chest, his rippling abs. “Is that so, Sombish?” 

Iris inhaled softly, turning to the man as he stood. His eyes were a deep, soulful brown, the pupil crowned with dawn-green, and his lips were turned up into a thin but playful smile. Iris had only seen his face once before, in the neglected portrait gallery Portia had showed her on their tour; the deep kindness, the dark warmth in his gaze echoed in so many of the portraits before his. Count Sombish the Fourth, the last in a long dynasty of Seljek-Malekshas; he had ruled Vesuvia for 35 years before Lucio became Count. He was on the young side when he died, Iris remembered Portia telling her. 62 years old – about the age Iris would peg him at now. An icy streak of panic gripped Iris’s, sinking into her marrow. 

This man now slid into the bed with Lucio, those enchanting eyes tracing the curve of his narrow lips, the arch of his dark eyebrows. Lucio practically purred when gentle, time-worn but well-manicured hands smoothed down his pale chest, pristine and unmarked in its youthfulness, before slipping down under the sheets. Lucio grunted softly and then groaned, long and low and licentious; Sombish’s hands came away with a slick, thick rubber plug that he set down on the nightstand without looking - also ritual. 

Then Lucio’s hands were on him, his shoulders, his chest, Lucio forcing him onto his back and ripping the robe open before straddling him; Iris’s eyes widened with shock at the expression on Lucio’s face. Iris had seen Lucio’s face darken with lust before, but never like this; rather than lips pulled into a sneer, a snarl of aggression, they were parted, trembling – and his eyes, so light blue they were almost white, looked almost...almost sad, almost desolate, as he ground down against the Count’s naked hips, both of their cocks springing to life.

And then it was gone, like a trick of the light – the snarl she knew all too well twisted across his face, and he growled with laughter as he reached down and pressed the tip of the Count’s erection against him; he seated himself easily, fully, with one deft motion as if this, too, were ritual. Sombish groaned and Lucio purred as he started to rock his hips, forward and back, slowly, teasingly. 

“Were you thinking about this all day, Som?” He growled. “How I was waiting for you in your bed while you were in your...” His voice caught, and he shuddered as pleasure rippled through him. “...in your meetings? Running your empire?” 

Sombish laughed softly as Lucio pinned his hands back onto the bed and ground harder, searching shamelessly for more of that pleasure. “And what if I told you I think of you all the time, whether you’re waiting in my bed or not?” The Count muttered.

Lucio hummed, satisfied, even as his voice turned chilly and commandeering. “I’d say you’re a fool. Keep your hands there.” 

“A fool?” Sombish cooed, before moaning as Lucio sat up; he obeyed, nestling one hand under the other, threading his fingers through the white satin sheets. “Is it foolish to want? Foolish to love?” 

Lucio snorted now, even through the soft pants that welled up from his chest, the beads of sweat that formed now on his collarbones, his temples, as he rode. “Some might say that.” His strong hands wrapped around Sombish’s neck, carefully, not pressing. “Certainly some would say that asking a mercenary to choke you in your bed is foolish.” 

Iris’s ached as Sombish’s gaze turned tender, tender and wicked. “Then I’m a fool, Montag.” 

Lucio snorted again. “Love makes fools of us all.” His fingers closed around Sombish’s neck, and with a soft sigh, he turned to putty in Lucio’s hands. 

Iris watched, her hands clenched over her heart; she realized she was holding her breath with them, counting carefully, for a 30 seconds, for a minute. They moved together, easily, fluidly, practiced, their eyes locked, even as Sombish sputtered, with joy, with bliss; then, Iris saw his fist close certainly above his head, the signal. Lucio’s icy gaze flickered to it, then back to him – his eyes were vicious now, his grin wide and wild; horribly, horribly he laughed, as Sombish’s eyes flew open in terror, as his claw-liked fingers tightened around the aging Count’s neck. 

Then it was a real struggle, and Sombish bucked, clawed, fought. Iris could see that he, too, had been a warrior in his prime, his movements agile and certain as he tried to wrest Lucio off of him. But he had lost too much air, and he was smaller than Lucio, and much older, much weaker; Lucio was as immovable as marble, as cold, as solid, like a statue of some terrifying beast, his expression stony and focused. Sombish’s hand flew out desperately, slipping to the edge of the mattress, searching as the choking sounds subsided to voiceless, silent gasps; it was now that Lucio chuckled. 

“Ahh, yes, the gold dagger you’d hidden there.” Lucio purred. “You thought I didn’t know, but I found it. You left me in here all day to search, Som. That was a mistake, one of many.” 

Iris wanted to scream, but she knew she couldn’t in this horrible memory, this horrible – she inhaled sharply, intuition, clairvoyance, washing over her like a cold tide – dream. Lucio’s snarl snaked across his face as Sombish’s eyes unfocused slowly; he leaned forward, his lips almost brushing against the Count’s. 

“I saw the way you looked at me from the moment I joined your mercenary army as a wet-eared whelp. You wanted me. You wanted to possess me.” He crooned. “You promoted me through the ranks just so you could get close to me. Then you lured me into your bed. You thought I would roll over for you, that I would play your game and take what I was given but I...” He gritted his teeth now, his voice an animal growl. “I am a man who does what he needs to get what he wants.” 

Using the last of his strength, Sombish reached up and touched Lucio’s cheek, his warm fingertips tracing the sharp jawline lovingly – a riot of emotions crashed across Lucio’s face, emotions Iris could not place or name, before he throttled Sombish violently, the hand falling away helplessly. 

If Lucio held on to ensure the Count was truly dead or because the weight of what he’d done had washed over him, Iris didn’t know, and she was afraid to look inside of him, but his whole chest heaved now with wild breath, and his arms and shoulders shook with adrenaline. A maniacal smile, toothy and gruesome, washed over his features, and he laughed, laughed, laughed, even as he unloosed his hands from the dead Count’s throat, as he threw his head back and ran his hands through his hair, as a tear slid down his cheek, one that he brushed away immediately, unconsciously.

Then he unseated himself, there was a glint of gold and alabaster as he reached behind him for the nightstand, where he’d stowed the dagger; still straddling the Count’s hips, he skillfully lopped off Sombish’s head, wet scarlet rushing over the white satin in waves. Lucio threaded his strong fingers through the Count’s long hair and strode for the door, the fresh blood spurting over the rugs, the tiled floor, the Count’s eyes still wide and warm and brown and glistening with tears, even as they fogged over, sight receding from the earthside plane into Death’s waiting embrace. 

Iris stumbled behind Lucio as he strode out into the hallway. Two young servants awaited the emergence of the Count, a chambermaid no older than Lucio and a porter who was probably in his early teens; at the sight that greeted them, the Count’s bedfellow completely naked and covered in blood, the Count’s head in his fist, they both turned white as a sheet and pressed themselves to the wall, frozen in fear. Lucio ignored them, strutting down the hall, down the marble stairs, through the winding corridors of the palace to the receiving room. 

The porter, a young woman, took one look at him and screamed; this was the herald he wrenched open the doors to, that the Courtiers turned their wide eyes, their shocked faces, to. Lucio, the tall column of his back, his neck, righting, his thick, muscular legs planted firmly, his cock still horribly pink and hard, tossed the head in front of the little semi-circle of the five of them, the blood streaming from it smearing across the floor gruesomely as it skidded to a halt at their feet. 

“I bested your Count in a battle of physical prowess.” Lucio crooned, his nasal voice dripping in imperious swagger. “He is without heir. By Vesuvian law, I am the rightful Count.” 

Iris would have laughed if she wasn’t so horrified, the way the Courtiers, in their opulent dress, their finely-wrought gold and jewels, gaped at the head, at the sight of him, silently, their mouths slack with shock. And then the only Courtier that Iris recognized, Consul Valerius’s mother, Treasa – now much younger, her pointed features somehow even sharper – raised her chin to Lucio and her glass in the air, a glint in her eye that Iris only just caught: conspiratorial, victorious. The other Courtiers followed suit, as if in a trance. 

“To a prosperous and fruitful reign. Long live Count Lucio.” She murmured. Their glasses clinked, and Lucio’s imperious smile twisted into a victorious grin, even as his shoulders shook; obsidian chains, dark and oppressive and scorching hot, circled his wrist, the left, twining slowly, snakelike, up his muscled arm, his shoulder. Iris felt something grasp at her fingers, something warm and soft and tentative, but when she turned to look, the scene swirled and receded – 

…

Iris blinked back the sunlight that bored into her eyes – it was mid-afternoon, and warm, summer, but the air smelled strange to her, foreign and volcanic. In front of her stretched a marshy taiga, the grasses baked yellow and crisp from the summer sun, but she was under the shade of larch trees, sitting on a stony butte that jutted over a creek, its babble hushed and sibilant. Birds chirped and chattered overhead, and insects buzzed; across the meadow, Iris could see snow-pointed deer leaping and bounding through the grasses. The symphony of life was in full swing.

Iris heard a sound, a deep, sharp breath, followed by low whispers, soft and soothing. She looked around; there was nothing out of place around her, just the gentle swaying of the trees, the sun slipping through their branches, dappling the stony surface she knelt on. Then, a moan, unmistakable – Iris leaned over the edge of the butte to gaze down at the creek and found the source of the noises. 

On a wide outcrop below her, shaded, too, by a clump of slender larches and their dense branches, dotted with just-budding marigold bushes, two teenagers were entangled; two young men, one of them swarthy and thick, his broad back rippling and his shoulder-length, wavy brown hair glinting in the sun as he moved. Below him, lying on his back, was Lucio, even younger than before – the softness of youth still filled out his face, but his body was strong and lithe, the body of a young man who had been trained from his youth to be a warrior. He was propped up on his elbows, his back arched, his neck flung long, his flowing blonde hair waterfalling back on the rocks below as his lover filled him, moved with him.

But this wasn’t the impatient, fumbling fucking of horny teens – they moved slowly, deliberately, with practiced concert, their gazes never breaking as they panted in near unison. Iris’s hand flew to her heart as it ached – she was reminded of Julian, of Asra, they way they looked at her when they were inside of her, they way she must have looked at them when she came. This was love, first love, real love. It sang certain through her every vein; she couldn’t draw her eyes away. 

She watched as they made love for an unknowable amount of time; they caressed each other, touched each other reverently, their hands in each other’s hair, nails dragging down backs, grasping strong thighs and muscular arms. Iris was mesmerized, trying to reconcile this tender, younger Lucio with the heartless, selfish brute she knew, when she felt the same soft, warm touch against the hand she held braced against the edge of the rocky cliff. 

She wheeled around, her trance broken, her eyes wide and wild; the little hand jerked away from her, frightened. A blonde child, a cherub, truly, his eyes big and bright, the irises ice blue, chubby lips trembling – he was crouching, shaking, his big beautiful eyes welling, the sweet curls of his long light hair framing his little face. He was no more than five. 

Iris stared stupidly at him, her mouth falling open with shock. There was no denying who the child was; she could easily imagine the roundness of his face melting away into sharpness, his eyes hardening to unfeeling darkness. This child would grow into a monster, a monster who would cause the deaths of thousands of people. And yet… she reached her hand out to him, to comfort him, but he recoiled, sobbing, his watery gaze flitting upward as he cowered. 

Iris looked back over her shoulder, her hand still outstretched to the child, and saw what he saw; it took Iris a moment to place her, the disdainful lift of her chin, the bleak, black tattoos that ran down her cheekbones, her neck, like inky tears, her blonde, nearly invisible eyebrows, the snow-white hair, wild and matted and drawn back with leather straps. She was dressed simply in warm furs and leather, a leopard’s pelt wrapped around her waist, her mother’s hips; planted firmly on the rocky butte was a spear, filed to a point so sharp it could rend the fabric of the universe. Lucio’s mother, from **the Chariot** card, her nostrils lifted in a disgusted sneer. 

The cries below them were rising up like shimmering summer heat, the wavering grunts and groans that accompanied the build-up to orgasm; Iris’s heart pounded uselessly as the formless noises coalesced into words, rather, one word over and over and over again, ecstatic, practically wailing: “Feroze, _Feroze, **Feroze, FEROZE** …“_

The woman crouched, sniffing once, her sneer creeping into a grimace as she watched her son come, as Feroze pulled out of him and came, too, with a guttural grunt, the lovers’ gazes never breaking.

Iris turned back to the child, but he was gone like smoke; the voices below them were as audible as if she were lying next to them, Lucio whining softly as Feroze leaned over him and licked clean the expanse of his chiseled stomach, his muscular chest, tending to him as an attentive, caring lover should. Lucio’s mother snorted softly, and sat back on her heels; she pulled a sparkstone out of her pocket and sharpened her spear, sparks silently jumping as the two men below her glowed in the golden sunset light. 

Finally, Feroze, satisfied, wrapped his arms around Lucio’s chest and pressed his ear to his pounding heart, his hips situated between Lucio’s. Lucio carded his fingers through the other’s damp hair, his eyes still cloudy with ecstasy, with devotion. Slowly, sweetly, they dropped into tender sleep in each other’s arms, lulled by each other’s soft breath of dreams, and Iris with them…

Iris awoke without any rest to a gut-twisting shriek, nasal and shrill and heartbroken; she couldn’t see, it was dark, the sun just setting, the sky lit only with soot-soft gray and a light dusting of lavender. But Lucio, at her side, could just see, could feel the stickiness of dried blood on his chest, the matted, drenched hair that plastered his stomach as he peeled the severed head of his lover from his skin. He screamed, screamed, the shattering sound shaking Iris alive, unbearably alive. 

She hardly registered what was happening as she was wrenched up, wrenched forward, stumbling blindly through the darkness as Lucio sprung to life, sprinting down the cliff’s face with sure, powerful strides, a ferocious, undulating warrior’s howl rising in his throat as he landed with a skilled crouch, Feroze’s silky hair still threaded between his fingers. In the distance, fires dotted the horizon, the smoke trailing lazily up against the starlit skies; the distance was nothing, nothing for Lucio’s young legs, his young lungs, as he and Iris raced across the crunching taiga, tears streaming down both their cheeks. 

The once-nomadic village sprung up around them, the racks for drying pelts and meat, the sturdy yurts, the pastures for goats and sheep and yaks and chickens, and finally the longhouse at the center, long-covered in moss, buttressed with thick larch and yew logs. A massive bonfire roared in front of the arched entrance, where the tattooed woman sat straight-backed on an austere throne, an extremely drunk man seated beside her, sloshing his ale over his lap while she demurely sipped her lingonberry wine.

The broken cry that rose from Lucio’s throat was unseemly, heartwrenching, as he threw the head of his lover in front of his parents; his mother barely batted an eyelash, his father staring at it drunkenly, stupidly, as Lucio’s chest heaved with sobs. Iris realized that, in his hysteria, he was still naked, his clothes left discarded on the butte, as his mother met his gaze, unfazed and disdainful. 

“This is YOUR doing!” He shrieked, his nose lifting in a sneer; she rose and met his expression exactly, her eyes cold, unfeeling. She was tall, several centimeters taller than Iris, and even though Lucio was already taller than her, she towered over him now.

“It is.” She growled softly. “You’d given him too much.”

“How _COULD_ you?” Lucio practically squealed; someone, from somewhere, procured their prince a sword, a curved, sharp thing that he brandished towards his mother.

She scowled at him now, standing, her spear pointed menacingly at his heart. “Did you love him, Montag?” She asked coldly, so coldly that Iris shivered. “Would you do anything for him? Give your life for him?”

Lucio fought valiantly, futilely against the tears that spilled over his cheeks; Iris knew the answer before he could respond, and so did his mother. She spat on the ground in front of him in disgust.

“Do you think I love your father?” She asked, her voice low, gravelly, sibilant with disdain as the man, the slumped, barrel-chested warrior beside her, drunken and gone to seed, barely stirred at the mention, his unfocused eyes watching the scene in front of him dispassionately. “The beloved son of one of the northern clans, ale-steeped, spoiled, rotten. Only good for seed.” She raised her chin now, looking down her nose at her only offspring. “And barely.” 

“Then how could you understand?” Lucio wailed, his entire body trembling as he pointed the sword at his mother. She stepped forward, her leather boot on Feroze’s head; with one crush of strength, his skull shattered under her foot like an overripe melon, blood and brain matter splattering everywhere, everywhere.

Lucio howled, and charged; with one swift movement, his mother disarmed him from the sword in his hand, the tip of her spear pointed at his throat as she threaded her fingers through his hair, wrenching his neck back so hard he gurgled, the breath forced out of him. 

“I did you a favor.” She hissed at him, her face millimeters from his, spit arcing from her black lips. “Love is a weakness. Remember that, Montag. Marriage is an alliance, and love – it will be the undoing of you, of your tribe, of your clansmen. If you’re to rule the Scourge of the South, you can’t be rutting in the dirt with anyone like an animal.” She grasped his hair so hard by the root that he yelped pitifully, then threw him in the dirt by the crackling fire, even though he probably weighed four stone more than her. “But if you would like to avenge your beloved, you can kill me, and take your rightful place as heir.” Her lip lifted now, her eyes crackling with amusement; Iris saw immediately she didn’t expect him to take her up on her offer.

Still, he lunged, tears glittering in his eyes; without breaking a sweat, she threw him to the ground, painfully, knocking the wind out of him. His hordesmen averted their eyes as he staggered, as he grabbed the sword from the ground and reached for her again, sloppily; skillfully, she disarmed him and threw him again, this time onto his stomach. He retched and vomited, long strings of bile hanging from his lips like an infant’s spittle. 

“If you want to love…” She hissed, standing dauntingly over him as she planted a foot on his back, forcing him down. “You must be ready at all times to protect it. If your Northern enemies know you love, a partner, a child, a lover… they will kill them, Montag, if you aren’t constantly vigilant. If you’re lucky, they will only kill them. Even then, it will weaken you, as it weakens you now, and you will weaken your people. Love turns even the most powerful kings into fools.” She threaded her hands through his long, long hair and wrenched him back before pushing him into the ground again, almost nonchalantly; he sputtered and gasped, the air ripped from his lungs. “This is a kindness; your love is no more. You can begin anew, more powerful than ever.” She sneered at him, the abhorrence palpable in her ice-blue eyes, exactly the same as Lucio’s.

She allowed him to stand; he was covered in dirt, still gasping for breath, naked and shaking like a newborn. His gaze scrambled over the even faces of his hordesmen, some kindly looking into their steins, some leveling him with their disapproving gaze. He turned to back to her, and her gaze was completely cold, etched in disappointment, in something else, something unknowable to Iris; when she dipped into her, she found nothing, echoing nothing – an inscrutability spell, or something deeper, inherent. With a contorted twist of his lips, Lucio stumbled and ran, retreating into the longhouse, sobbing wildly. 

He grabbed one of the swords that hung in the entryway, and rushed to the great room; a mirror, small and spotted, unpolished, hung over the hearth, where the fire was dying down, leaving only embers behind. Lucio dragged his fingertips through the ashes, his skin tingling with heat, though he barely acknowledged it as he smeared the ashes under his eyes and over his cheekbones, dragging down almost to his lips, making him look more gaunt, more skull-like. Then he took the sword – hanging his head low, trembling with tears, with wailing cries, he lopped off his long, beautiful hair at the nape of his neck.

It fell like rain over the earthen floor of the longhouse, and Lucio staggered forward onto his knees, shaking, shaking, with grief, with shame, with betrayal, and the low light burned slowly into everything in Iris’s vision – 

… 

The taiga again, but it was aflame with the colors of autumn, rich, bloody burgundies, burnt oranges, aching gold grasses, bowed and heavy and fragrant with wild grain. The marigold bushes that dotted the landscape were grizzled, having long given up their blooms; children, eight, nine, ten, darted between them, all carrying carved wooden weapons, spears and curved swords and little yew bows that they slotted larch sticks into instead of arrows. They were laughing, giggling wildly as they swung at each other, their movements already practiced and certain. 

Not far away was a boulder that jutted out of the grasses; seated, cross-legged, at its peak was a blond child of about eight. The child’s brow was furrowed in intense, soft focus – in front of him was a roughly bound journal of leather and starchy papyrus, clearly a child’s work, and in his hands was one of the withered buds from the marigold bushes, brown and cracked. 

Iris crept closer as the children darted around her legs, roughhousing and wrestling, practicing. One girl with a riot of tight honey-blond curls shot her little stick-arrows with skill while another girl, with long, straight red hair and freckles easily pinned a dark-skinned boy with wavy brown hair and ink-black eyes; Iris’s heart clenched, recognizing him immediately. 

But Lucio paid them no heed, his lips pillowing into a pout now as his focus intensified on the spent bloom. There was a tiny, tiny spark of golden light, the gentlest hint of green, a wish to unfurl, as Lucio’s eyes alighted with wonder; Iris gasped softly as the marigold slowly, slowly bloomed back to life, a gorgeous orange with a blood-red throat. 

“Monty, what are you doing?” A shrill voice startled them both, and the flower withered again, the spell broken; the redheaded girl stared up at him with her nose crinkled with disgust, her brown eyes vibrating in fear – the gaggle of children flanked her, some as flaxen-haired as Lucio, some as dark as Feroze. It appeared that the redhead had several siblings, all brothers, all younger than her. Feroze hung back, his eyes catching with Lucio’s, before he sprinted away towards the village, not far off in the distance. 

“Mind yourself, Kutulan.” Lucio said quietly, turning away from her. With a scowl, the curly-haired blond girl at her right slung a twig in her bow and loosed it; it struck its target, little Lucio’s shoulder, with such force that it splintered. Lucio yelped, clutching his arm to damp down the sting, and the children laughed cruelly. 

“That was mean, Sarangerel!” He whined, flinging the bud away before sliding down the face of the boulder with childish grace, his notebook forgotten. 

“Then do something about it, freak.” Kutulan mocked him, flipping the river of her rage-orange hair over her shoulders, planting her bare feet firmly in the dirt. “Fight me.” 

Lucio just rolled his eyes, making to go around the group of children, but they held ranks, circling him. He turned to Kutulan, clearly annoyed, but there was a flicker of fear behind his eyes as he met her gaze. “I’m bigger than you, Kutulan.” 

She laughed. “I best you every time we spar, Montag. You’re just scared. You can’t win without your freak magic, just like your ma.” She scowled now. “My mama would be the horde leader if your ma hadn’t cheated and killed her.” 

Lucio sneered. “Your ma didn’t know the tip of a spear from the butt of a goat. If your da hadn’t stuck her, she wouldn’t have figured out how to have you, either.” 

Kutulan’s grimace turned wild. “Why don’t you and your freak witch ma go live on the horned mountain with the rest of the _Seiðkana_ , eating babies and the bark from the bone trees, cutting your cock off for the demons?” 

Lucio roared, and lunged; Kutulan sidestepped him easily, kneeing him in the stomach before throwing him to the ground, but he grabbed her knees and brought her down with him. Then they were rolling, punching, kicking, pulling hair – it was clear that Kutulan was a talented fighter, strategic and quick-thinking, but so was Lucio, and he had the advantage of size, of strength, even at such a young age. 

He landed a solid jab in the girl’s eye, earning him a squeal of pain as she reared back. He punched her in the throat and she gasped desperately for air as she clawed at his face, her nails breaking the skin. Lucio was just grabbing her hair from the scalp and forcing her off of him when he heard a soft sound behind him. 

He wheeled around – his mother, younger and fuller, but still all angles, her sharp cheekbones, her thin nose, her pale features glowing against the golden setting autumn sun. She held Feroze’s hand loosely as he lead her to the fight; he easily dodged the rock volleyed at him from one of the red-headed children’s slingshot. 

“What is all this?” Lucio’s mother asked as her narrowed eyes slid over the two of them, their limbs tangled. 

“Monty started it, Jarl Morga!” One of the children yelled petulantly; they were silenced with a wave of Lucio’s mother’s, Morga’s, bony hand, her penetrating gaze boring into them. 

“That’s not true, is it child?” She whispered, and the child quaked; she turned her gaze back to Lucio and Kutulan. 

“Montag, what happened?” Her voice softened, almost imperceptibly; still, the authority in her voice sent a cold shiver down Iris’s spine. 

“Kutulan insulted you.” He managed. “She called you a freak. A witch. She said you shouldn’t be clan leader.” 

Morga raised a light, almost invisible eyebrow. “Is that so.” 

“He used magic!” Kutulan yelled, squirming out of Lucio’s grasp and pushing him away sharply. “Even though it’s forbidden by Vlagnagog!” 

Morga hummed, half thoughtfully, half impassively. “Did he hurt you, Kutulan?” 

Kutulan startled, bristled. “No. Montag couldn’t lay a finger on me if he tried.” Lucio shot her an indignant look, thin lips pushed into a pout. 

Lucio’s mother raised her chin, looking down her nose at the child. “So you attacked my son, the heir, without provocation, and questioned my authority as Jarl? That’s a declaration of mutiny, isn’t it, Kutulan.” 

The young girl whitened like a bleached sheet, her eyes going wide. “No, Morga. That’s… that’s not what I meant.” 

Morga snorted softly. “If what you and Montag have said is true, he has a right to kill you.” 

Lucio’s sour expression melted, and he turned to his mother, his brow furrowed with fear. “Ma, no...” 

Morga’s expression was icy as her gaze settled on her son. “Are you going to protect your birthright, Montag? Are you going to be a man, or a coward?” 

Lucio’s eyes were welling. “I forgive her, Ma. It’s okay. I don’t want to kill her.” 

She snorted. “Will forgiveness protect your clansmen, Montag? Your children? Your mate? Will compassion help you track your meat, keep your people’s blood from being spilled?” She turned to the children now. “Do what you will with him.” She growled through her sneer; without another word, she walked away. 

The children all stood, stock-still and shocked, as the black figure she cut against the setting sun receded towards the village, where smoke was starting to rise from the nightly bonfire – the adults were probably just breaking out the ale, setting out the roast meat for dinner. Lucio heaved a sigh, and turned back to Kutulan, his lips parted around what, Iris would never know. Kutulan, with a ferocious warrior’s shriek, tackled him to the ground. 

Iris stumbled back, horrified, as the children, at least ten of them, piled on Lucio, punching, kicking, biting, bashing him with their wooden play-weapons – the rest reared back, their mouths wide with apprehension. It didn’t matter how skilled Lucio was – there were just too many of them, too many hands, too many feet. Feroze flew in to help Lucio, trying to pull him out of the fray, but soon, he too, was pummeled. 

And then Kutulan held up a hand, and the children stopped. Lucio’s nose and browbone where shattered, his eye swelling shut – he was covered in dark bruises, and his mouth was bloody – he coughed, and red spittle sprayed up, a constellation of pain on his simple white shirt. 

Kutulan laughed, though Iris could see in her eyes that she, too, was horrified, astounded, at the damage they had done, how easily it had been to overpower their horde’s beloved prince. “Morga’s right.” She whispered. “What good is an heir who can’t even defend himself?” 

Lucio’s eyes flashed, and it happened before Iris even felt the rush of magic, cold and afraid, bristle against her skin, painting it with goosebumps. Without being touched, Kutulan’s neck twisted and cracked loudly, and she fell to the ground in a heap with a thump that was both too much and not enough sound for her child’s body. 

There was no noise, just the wind rustling through the grasses, the distant rumbling of autumn thunder across the taiga, as every child stared, wide-eyed, chests heaving, at Kutulan’s body. Then they scattered, shrieking, terrified; even Feroze, his eyes wild with fear, bleeding from his hair, scrambled back and away, taking off with his sisters without much more than a glance back at Lucio. 

He was alone now, with Kutulan’s crumpled body; his hands shook, his shoulders heaved, and he doubled over, vomiting profusely. Then he devolved into sobs, soul-quaking sobs, of paralyzing fear, of regret, of adrenaline; he wailed, clawed the ground, grieved for a thing he could not yet name. Iris felt the small warmth against her palm, and this time, she didn’t hesitate; she squeezed the tiny hand, let it wrap around her two longest fingers – the child besides her was crying, too, his little lips trembling as the tears streamed freely down his face. 

Finally, Lucio regained his senses, his faculties; Iris and the child watched as he fumbled with the sash tied around his waist, drawing a small dagger. With clumsy, sawing motions, he pried the girl’s head from her shoulders, blood bursting everywhere, making Iris sick to her stomach – the whole time, Lucio cried silently, tears streaking through the dirt and swell and red. When he finally wrenched her head from her twisted neck with a horrible tug of her silken hair, he walked slowly, slowly back to the village, her head cradled in his arms, Iris and the child trailing behind him, stepping over the blood that spilled over the grasses, the withered marigolds, the dirt. 

The hordesmen and women had gathered for their shared dinner, but the children had no doubt returned in a panic, screaming to everyone what had happened – they all lined the little pathways now. Their eyes were cold, steely, as Lucio wound between them – some even spit on the path before him, even as he cried silently, Kutuan’s head still weeping her blood, her eyes still horribly open, gaping, sightless. They followed him, guided him, to where his mother sat, at the head of the long table under the goatskin awning. 

She stood when she saw him, having already heard what had transpired; at her side was a man, red-headed and red-faced, tall, tall – Kutulan’s father. Lucio paused, trembling, before he held the head out to his mother and dropped to one knee, his head bowed reverently. 

Morga’s thin lips pursed. “Montag.” Her voice was cold, yet her eyes were almost earnest with twisted pride. “Your first kill.” 

The man at her side sneered, rearing on her. “A dishonorable kill. A promising young warrior cut down by unnatural magic. Vlagnagog will be displeased.” He was vibrating with anger, his eyes sparkling with tears. “A blood debt is owed to my family.” 

Lucio shuddered, and stood, drawing up to his full height, hardly coming to the man’s waist. “I will fight you for the blood debt.” He practically whimpered, his chest shaking – Iris thought he might vomit again. 

“No.” Morga took the head from Lucio’s trembling hands and, with an almost absentminded ruffle of his long, baby-soft hair, flung Kutulan’s remains into the bonfire. “It is not your debt to pay, kid.” She turned to the man now, her eyes steely. “It is mine.” 

The man’s demeanor changed as suddenly as the tides, his brown eyes flying wide. “Jarl Morga, no, I didn’t mean...” 

Morga’s lip lifted into a sneer as her eyes fluttered closed, as if she were counting to seven. “A blood debt claimed on my kin is a blood debt claimed on me, Amarbold.” When her eyes opened, they were golden, ringed with black. “This is Vlagnagog’s law.” 

“Morga, Jarl Morga, please...” Amarbold shook. “I meant no offense...” 

With hardly anything but a flash of light, Morga’s spear was at the man’s throat, his voice nothing more than a gurgle as the void-rending edge just touched his neck, a bead of blood sullying the blade. “You threaten my heir and claim no offense, you spineless worm?” She hissed – above them, a shriek sounded through the purple sky like a siren’s call, and a shadow passed over them – a terrifying falcon, piercing eyes as black as the void, landed on Morga’s outstretched arm. “You’re just like your worthless mate. Ebba didn’t know her place, either.” 

“Ma…” Lucio’s little voice was hardly more than a whimper. “Ma, don’t… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, please don’t… his sons, who’ll – who’ll care for them –” 

Morga’s ferocious eyes turned to Lucio now, unblinking, cold. “These are the consequences for your actions, Montag.” Her gaze rested on him for only a moment longer, another strange expression Iris couldn’t unfathom, before snapping back to Kutulan’s father. “Draw your steel, Amarbold.” 

It was quick. The hordesmen and women stepped back, forming a makeshift ring. He was a warrior, it was clear, he wielded his curved sword with strength and skill, but it was hardly a fair fight. Two parries, three, and the sword was flung away, his back pressed into the packed dirt, Morga’s knee to his solar plexus, spearpoint to his throat. 

“It seems you’ll pay the blood debt for your daughter.” She growled. “I would not deny a dying man his last words.” 

He spat on her, scowling wildly. “You’d sell out your hordesmen for your abomination of a son. He’ll bring Vlagnagog’s destruction if you let his _Seiðkana_ curse go unchecked. What happened today is a disgrace, Morga, and you know it.” 

Morga’s lips lifted into a wild sneer, and the spear split through his throat with a strangled gurgle. Young Lucio trembled, and as Morga pulled her spear from the dying man, his blood splattering over her face, her chest, the hordesman turned to Lucio, their eyes narrowed and cold. 

Morga stood, and held out a hand to the young Lucio, not looking at him. He took it, hands shaking, and she lead him away into the longhouse, saying nothing to her people, her eyes slowly, slowly simmering down from their inkblack power. 

The little child’s hand trembled in Iris’s, and she did the unthinkable; she knelt down and scooped him into her arms, holding him close as they both watched the shape of mother and child bleed together, darken, swirl, recede. 

… 

It was dark, impossibly so – even the moon had forsaken this memory, neglecting to cast her silvery shade over the scene that sprung up slowly in front of Iris as her eyes adjusted. A bed, hardly more than a mattress suspended on long stretches of leather, in the dormer loft of the longhouse. A shape slept in it, small, huddled, shivering and twitching in sleep, a child’s form – Lucio. And, on the other side – Iris could see movement, hear sounds like shuffling, like heavy breaths, but it was hardly a whisper, distorted, muffled somehow. The child still in her arms, quivering with fear and sniffling with silent tears, she crept closer, as quietly as she could, as if she could disturb the sleeping shade of Lucio. 

Even in the shadowy not-light, Iris recognized the familiar movements on the floor by his bed – the fluid flexing of a well-muscled back, the toss of long, matted blonde hair, like a ghost in the night, the roll of hips. Iris stifled a gasp at the barely-there groan that rose from the floor, then cut off, a gurgle, by a slender, battle-gnarled hand. 

It was enough – with a soft, childish whine, Lucio stirred, sitting, rubbing his eyes – his face was still swollen, red and raw, his lip purpled and bruised. The scene slowly sharpened in front of him, in front of Iris, and his eyes flew wide. Morga had a man, one of the hordesmen, pinned to the floor, one hand on his neck, the other on his chest. It was now that the sigil glowed, a pentagram, sinking the room into uncanny blood-red light, that Morga’s eyes flashed with that same ink-black power, and the man under her shuddered, moaned, his hips stuttering up into her. 

Morga’s lip lifted, almost imperceptibly, in disgust, and she moved faster than Iris thought possible – a knife at the edge of the sigil, jagged – ceremonial – split across the man’s throat, the feeble spurt of blood on her hands, her bare chest – the child in Iris’s arms sobbed, chubby, grubby hands plastered over his eyes, and the child Lucio in the bed sat stunned, his eyes wide as plates as his mother dismounted. With a grunt, she shouldered the man to the side, and turned, face bloodied, eyes fierce, to Lucio. 

Panic laced each and every one of Iris’s veins as Morga, quick as a panther, grabbed her son by the hair – with a howl of pain, he was dragged into the sigil, and it glowed an even brighter, fiercer red. “Hold still.” Morga hissed, and Lucio could do nothing but obey, trembling, as his mother sliced his sleepshirt off of him, reached for the spill now trailing down her leg, and quickly dotted it down Lucio’s shuddering chest, heaving with panicked breaths, his neck, his forehead, his crown. “The spend of a dead man.” Morga murmured. 

The knife was back in her hand, across her own palm – blood flowed, blood she let drip over the rough wooden chalice in the center, full of rich red wine, the rough chunk of garnet, the white mountain roses. “The blood of a witch.” She crushed the roses in her free hand, the sweet scent obscene against animal smell of blood, placing the spent stems in the center under the garnet. “Gifts from the honored horned mountain.” She raised the chalice, a curt salute. “Wine from winter’s first kiss.” She drank, then forced the chalice to Lucio’s lips, the wine dribbling down his chin, but he drank, knowing nothing, nothing else – he whined at the taste, confused, frightened tears streaming down his child’s face. 

The magic that thrummed through the air like a struck gong shook Iris’s very bones, and the child in her arms cried out, buried his face in the crook of her neck, her skin was wet, she was shivering and shaking. Still, she clutched him to her as the knife flashed, now pointed at the young Lucio’s throat, Morga’s brightblack eyes simmering, cold, cold, though her expression was that strange blank, that unblinking, unreadable stare. 

“Are you gonna protect yourself now, kid?” Her voice was even and chilly as the blade touched the soft of his throat, and he reached for her, hands on her wrists, trying to push her away, oh, he was sobbing now, lips trembling, staring down the knife, his mother’s piercing eyes. “Won’t you use your magic to fight me?” 

“Ma...” Iris could break, the sharp split in his voice as he pleaded, so unlike the Lucio she knew, earnest, soft – blood, barely a bead, swimming down the blade. “Ma, please…” 

Morga grimaced, lips lifted into a snarl of contempt. “I suppose this is my fault. I should have done this sooner, before you knew.” Then, a strange softness, expression smoothing, almost pained – a sigh, as her eyes fluttered closed. “I thought I could teach you. I should have known.” 

There was a pause, a moment, where Lucio stilled, his lips trembling, as he looked up to his mother with those wide, bright-blue eyes, sparkling with tears, and Iris saw it, even then. “Ma...” He whimpered, his little hand touching her cheek, touch so tender, so tentative. 

Her eyes flew open, glowing, glowing with fearsome power, tears glistening in her white eyelashes. “ _USE YOUR MAGIC, MONTAG._ ” Her voice boomed through the little room, reverberating through Iris’s very soul, and the child in her arms wailed. Lucio’s eyes flew wide, and with a shower of white sparks, the knife clattered away from them. 

It happened so fast, Iris almost missed it. A supernova of white light, golden threads of magic springing from each one of Lucio’s chakras, spider casting out her web, tiny fly trapped – the golden threads wrapped around Morga, over and over and over again, coalescing into coal-black chains, melting into her own bare chest, her arms, as they both screamed with the agony. 

And then it was done, the sigil bloomed and sputtered, and they both fell limp, panting, changed. Lucio stared at his trembling hands, shocked at the blankness, the emptiness under the skin without the insistent hum of magic through him. “Ma...” His face crumpled. “Ma, what did you do?” 

“I did you a favor.” Her hands were shaking, too, as she lifted them to Lucio’s face, fingertips tracing the swell of his cheek, the soft of his chin – the tenderest touch Iris had seen yet from her. “You can be the leader the horde needs now.” 

And Lucio believed her, that same softness in his eyes even as his features twisted, his lips quivered, mourning. And the horrible scene receded from them. 

… 

What formed in front of Iris and the child next was strange, disorienting; at first, all they saw were the dark, long shadows cast against the wooden floors and stone walls of the longhouse. The fire was roaring in the hearth, and piled in front of it were pelts, bear and wolf and yak and snow leopard; around these pelts, what looked like glittering jewels, rough chunks of garnet and carnelian, were laid in a circle, along with dried mountain roses, their petals scattered, and small red candles. 

Lucio, a young man, was on his knees on the pelts, a beautiful young woman with pendulous breasts and full, thick hips, on her hands and knees in front of them; he fucked her from behind, noisily, ferociously, his arched back taut as a bow, as she moaned wantonly, her head flung back, one of his hands fisted in her tumbling honey-blonde curls. But that wasn’t what was strange about the scene. Flanking the circle were members of the clan, dressed in what Iris could only assume were their finest, gleaming pelts and fur-edged coats, a few pieces of fine jewelry, no doubt looted from bodies or earned through treaties. 

Morga and her mate stood at the apex of the circle, facing the hearth; Lucio’s father was grinning, beating the long handle of his battleaxe against the rough shale floor, but Morga watched with her chin raised, unimpressed. 

The young woman wailed loudly and her back bowed; her entire body quivered as she came with a series of wild cries that earned Lucio some elated whoops of approval. He hissed, arched, slowing his hips as his lover’s orgasm milked him to his own release. 

The voyeurs cheered now in earnest, slamming the shafts of their weapons on the ground noisily as Lucio panted, as his lover glowed, turning back to him with adoration in her eyes; he grinned at her raffishly, tracing his hand languidly across her cheek, under her chin, before pulling out of her and standing, turning towards the others, his softening erection and muscled pubis glistening with wet. 

Someone threw a warm robe over his shoulders while another tended to the young woman, pulling her up to her feet and helping her, too, shrug into an embroidered robe, smoothing out her hair. Lucio’s father, with a booming laugh, opened his arms to his son, who embraced him heartily. 

“That’s my boy.” Lucio’s father murmured fondly, but Morga snorted. 

“It is not a hero’s feat to spill seed, Lutz.” She murmured, but the corners of her mouth were just beginning to curl. “But you could do worse for a mate than Sarangerel. She is a fine hunter, and her mother bore many children.” 

Lutz chuckled, clapping his hand on Lucio’s back. “A fine hunter, indeed. She almost outdid you on your own birthday hunt, son.” 

Lucio snorted. “Isn’t that the idea? The one who outpaces a man on his 18th birthday is fit to be his mate?” 

“Indeed.” Morga’s penetrating gaze narrowed as the whisper of a smile faded from her face. “But remember a mate does not a man make.” 

“Aww, can it, Morga, godssake.” Lutz guffawed. “Let the boy have his fun.” His hand wrapped around Lucio’s shoulder and he lead him out of the circle, towards a long table groaning with fine things, shocking Iris – they stood out garishly against the austerity of the longhouse, of the dress of Lucio’s clansmen. It was now that Iris noticed that Lutz’s clothes were much finer than his people’s, the rich green of his coat and the gold of his rings out of place against the browns and grays and whites of leather and fur. 

“Gifts from your Northern cousins.” Lutz purred proudly, as Lucio’s eyes lit up greedily, falling immediately to the gleaming bronze pauldron and the pristine steel sword in the center. There was a beautiful red vest, embroidered and edged in gold thread, and several pieces of jewelry, huge rings and a long necklace set with a massive garnet, faceted like a beetle. Silk shirts, billowing white and stormy gray and blood red, beautifully supple calf-length boots of cow’s leather, and many, many luscious foods, cakes and dried fruit and nuts and sweets flavored with rosewater, lavender, pistachios. There were even gifts for his potential mate, jewelry and hairpins, bolts of beautiful cloth, rich embroidered blues and misty purples, linens dotted with wildflowers, rich indigo velvet, all to be made into clothing. 

Lucio summoned Sarangerel with a wave of his wrist, but she looked bemused at best at the finery in front of her, satisfied with the simple white slip and the white furs she had been dressed in. The only decoration that indicated her betrothal the was crown of red and white roses now resting against her temples. Despite this, her eyes lit up when Lucio selected what looked like a ruby inlaid in a delicate setting of gold, twining it around her neck and clasping it expertly, letting his fingers linger over her back, his eyes catching hers, before turning back to his spoils. 

Morga watched with naked displeasure as Lucio’s robe fell from his shoulders and he dressed in his gifts, the soft leather pants, the silk shirt, the embroidered vest, the skillfully wrought steel sword, the hilt positioned just over his hipbone, the tall boots. Iris shivered at the silhouette he struck; his muscular chest and rippling back, his broad shoulders, his powerful thighs, the sly smile that snuck across his narrow features as he gazed at his reflection in the little mirror on the hearth. He turned to Sarangerel, offering his arm to her, and together they walked out of the longhouse, into the roaring cheers of their hordesmen. 

It was clear to Iris that the coming-of-age of an heir was a thing to be celebrated; hordesmen were constantly coming up to Lucio and clapping him on the back, challenging him to wrestling matches or spars with their weapons or drinking contests, all of which Lucio won (whether or not this was due to his prowess or the good cheer of the hordesmen, Iris couldn’t determine.) Sarangerel was also the subject of much fuss and veneration; grinning young girls, blushing teens, and the few stooped grannies that had lived to old age approached her with arms full of winter wildflowers and charms for fertility, beauty, grace, good luck in the hunt. Morga and Lutz sat back and watched it all as their progeny grew drunker and drunker with his revelry, as their new daughter glowed with the attention, with drink, with the sweetness of betrothal. 

But Iris sensed a bristling in Lucio as the night wore on; he kept glancing back at his mother, his brows furrowed expectantly, though she watched him with a stony, immovable face as she slowly sipped her wine. Finally, finally, when Iris swore that most of the clansmen and women had wandered back to their yurts, to their mates for a night of renewed lovemaking, when Sarangerel had retreated to her new bed, awaiting her new mate, when only the drunkest and the slowly waning revelers were left, did Lucio approach his mother at her throne. 

“Ma.” He said quietly, his voice almost a hissed whisper. “When will the coronation be?” 

Morga raised an eyebrow at him, sipping her wine; at her side, Lutz, sloshed, snored loudly. “Coronation?” 

Lucio inhaled sharply, annoyed, drunk. “You passing the leadership of the horde to me. I’m 18, I took a mate. It’s tradition; it’s expected.” 

Morga stared at him for a moment, her colorless eyes unreadable, before she laughed once, airlessly, softly. “If I thought you deserved a crown, it would not be for surviving for 18 years outside of the womb.” She muttered. “You think you can lead this band of savages? You’ve hardly seen battle. You were raised in prosperity, enjoying the spoils and protections of your father’s hordesmen.” She shook her head softly, her face painted with something that Iris felt rather than saw – regret. “No. You’re not ready to lead.” 

Iris saw every muscle in Lucio’s body tense, and the child in her arms, the one who weighed heavily on her, pressed his face into her neck, his cheeks hot with tears. “I did everything you asked.” Lucio hissed, a pale pink rising on his cheeks. “What more could you possible want from me?” 

Morga turned to him now, her gaze boring cruelly into him. “Becoming a man does not make you worthy of ruling, Montag.” She said calmly, slowly. “You have never had to provide for yourself. You’ve hardly had to fight for your life, for the lives of those who depend on you. Now, you won’t be mooching off of me and your father. You’ll provide for yourself, for Sarangerel, for the heirs you produce. There’s no rush to rule. Live your youth freely, with your mate at your side. Hunt together. Have a family. Perhaps once you know what it is to provide, you will be ready to lead. To rule.” 

“We are nothing without our power.” Lucio’s chest was heaving now, his shoulders shuddering. “You taught me that, Ma. You would take it from me now?”

"I cannot take anything from you that you do not allow me to take, Montag.” She replied harshly. “If I can take your power from you, it was never yours in the first place.”

Lucio’s nostrils flared, and he turned on his heel and stomped off noisily, huffily; Iris could see the slight dip of Morga’s brows, the way she sank herself into her chair, her nose buried in her lingonberry wine, even as Iris was spirited away with Lucio. 

He ventured not into the longhouse, into the arms of his mate, as Iris expected, but rather around, through the thick snow, his new, tall boots keeping his legs warm and dry as he trundled into the wild forest that ringed the camp, dotted with birch and larch and grizzled pines, now stripped of their dress.The further they went in, Lucio stomping through the snow, fingers trailing drunkenly over the branches, the denser it got, the hotter; Iris saw now that the craggy landscape was growing more and more inhospitable, dotted with steaming fumaroles and craggy steppes of rock, wild, sulfurous geysers. 

After nearly an hour of walking, Lucio finally stopped. Iris nearly collapsed, her legs wobbling and shaking, especially under the weight of the child in her arms, who had been sleeping as they traveled, now squirming and whimpering with discomfort. Lucio leaned against one of the few trees that dotted the volcanic landscape – they had arrived on a clearing, the ground under them hot and rolling with sulfurous steam. The clearing was almost perfectly circular, and at the center was a little stone cairn, carefully scored in a language that Iris didn’t recognize. 

Lucio walked to this cairn now, situated in front of a fumarole belching thick gray smoke that reeked of Death. Drunkenly, Lucio wrenched off his long, tall boots and the thick knit socks, revealing the sinuous feet, the lily-white of the soles as he sat and flipped his feet over his thighs. He drew a fine knife from the red silk sash tied around his waist and easily slashed the undersides of his feet, the blood running freely as he planted his feet on the ground in the snow around the little geyser. As soon as his feet touched the ground, his light eyes fluttered and rolled back into his head; he collapsed back into the frozen pillows of cold, his body cutting like anger through the snow piled there. 

From the smoking eye into the earth rose a figure that appeared to be made of bile, slippery and viscous and repulsive: too many arms, too many mouths, too many blank, sightless eyes as he hovered over Lucio’s form, shifting formlessly. 

Lucio groaned as his sight returned to him; he just barely suppressed the recoil that shot through his stomach, his chest, at the sight of the demon. “Vlagnagog…” He stammered drunkenly. “Great serpent of destruction. I’m…I am Montag, son of Jarl Morga and her mate, Lutz. They are faithful in their prayers to you.” 

The creature laughed, and it echoed through the clearing like fog rolling in before the morning sun, low and slow and creeping. “If it’s Vlagnagog you seek, you should have fed him. He grew fat on this land once, with the sacrifices your people made to him, of meat and magic and women. But in your prosperity, you have forgotten him. He shriveled dead ages ago.” 

Lucio’s brows danced as he processed this information. “Dead? Then who are you?” His lips pressed forward into a suspicious sneer. 

The creature snorted cruelly now. “Don’t you know better than to summon demons you can’t name? I am Vlastomil, the worm of pestilence. I am like Vlagnagog, and I am not fed on pretty words alone. I demand meat.” 

Iris could see, read, the thoughts spinning through Lucio’s head as he surveyed the demon in front of him. Then he smiled widely, simperingly – Iris knew this smile, had seen it many, many times. “If it’s meat you want, then you need my help.” Lucio purred confidently; in Iris’s arms, the child whined pitifully. 

The worm moved a little closer to Lucio; Iris saw each of his muscles tense just so, betraying his fear. “Is that so?” The worm Vlastomil hissed. 

Lucio steeled. “I’m the best hunter in my clan. You need to eat. I can bring you want you desire. Blood.” 

Vlastomil laughed. “I have no taste for it; only meat will do. I will settle for no less.” 

“Of course.” Lucio crooned. “What was I thinking? A powerful being like you. If grant me the power of your pestilence, I can bring you the most delicious meat in the South.” 

The slimy creature cocked his head, the drips over what would be his mouth undulating curiously, hungrily. “Perhaps we could come to an arrangement. But sweet meat is not enough. I need something of yours.” 

Lucio smiled wickedly, widely, crookedly. “The heads of my parents, Morga and Lutz.” 

“Hmmmm.” The worm considered this; then, like a flash, he was wrapped around Lucio, his undulating, slimy body slithering against, soiling the fine clothes Lucio had just been gifted. “I prefer the meat of hearts. Much sweeter than the brain. And...” He shuddered. “I want the heart of your mate. The fierce Sarangerel. Eating her heart after you’ve ripped it out of her… so tantalizing. There is nothing so delicious as the heart of a young woman, betrayed by her most beloved.” 

Lucio had the good sense to look horrified, mortified, before his expression slipped back into an accommodating grin. “I’m a man who does what is needed to get what he wants. Consider it done.” 

Vlastomil chuckled. “I can see that the love in your heart for them all is corrupted. If you succeed, I can only hope that something of you will remain.” Fleshy coils sprung up around Lucio’s wrists, his feet, his torso, holding him in place as the demon lowered himself over the stock-still prince and breathed his putrid breath over him. Iris could see the sickening miasma, glowing like frosted breath in the cold, as it settled over Lucio; Iris could feel the slime settle on her, making her skin crawl with revulsion. 

And like that, the worm was gone; Lucio and Iris’s vision burned black, horrid, acrid, and the little barrow receded from them like a fever dream. 

Iris and Lucio awoke in the loft of the longhouse, in Lucio and Sarangerel’s marriage bed, a heavy trunk nestled at the foot of the ornately carved four-poster bed. Lucio and Sarangerel made love as the sun rose, despite the nervous pounding of Lucio’s heart, remembering his encounter with the worm. When he descended the ladder, Iris scaling it behind him, the child clinging to her back, he embraced his father warmly, and joined his mother on the hunt, taking care to grasp her shoulder, brush arms with her, even clap his hand across her back at the end of the hunt, as they skinned their kills for their hide and stripped them of their meat. 

By the end of the day, Lucio’s father was coughing, his eyes painfully bloodshot. By the end of the night, he was shivering in his bed, the sclera of his eyes crimson. It was then that Lucio challenged him to battle, to the death. Even Iris could see the pride in his eyes as Lucio cut him down easily with his new sword as the morning sun split through the clouds that rolled across the taiga, and then the confusion in the clansmen when Lucio ripped out his heart rather than cutting off his head and presenting it to Morga, who was still the picture of health. Morga and Sarangerel watched the slaughter with their eyes narrowed; Morga’s nose lifted in disgust, Sarangerel’s lips parted in careful confusion. 

Sarangerel fell ill next, coughing and choking, vomiting; Lucio boasted she was already sick with child. He and some of the others left to hunt; when he returned to the village, his back laden with meat for his mate, he was surprised to find his mother, shaking with the sickness but still standing proud, tall, banking the fires of another funeral pyre, what looked like a body burning in the blaze. 

Lucio’s brows furrowed as he approached; Morga wheeled, her face a study of loathing. “Your mate is dead.” She growled. “I don’t know what you did, but I hope it was worth it.” 

“You BURNED her?” Lucio shrieked, his nasal voice splitting through the night sky. “Before I had a chance to say good-bye?” 

“She carries the same disease your father did. The one that weakened him.” She turned away from him now. “This will prevent its spread to our hordesmen.” 

Lucio’s face twisted in rage now. “Ma, you’re delirious. You should rest, you’re sick.” 

“For nine months I was bedridden with you, you ungrateful grub.” She growled ferociously. “Compared to that seasonless misery, this is nothing but a summer cold.” 

“You’re not making any sense, Ma. Let’s get you to bed.” Lucio reached for her arm, but she wrenched it away, her spear quickly drawn and pointed at his neck. 

“I should have known you would do something like this. We were always too lenient with you, never letting you suffer or know unhappiness, never punishing you for flouting the laws of the wilderness. Now look at you, spoiled rotten, throwing a temper tantrum like a brat, playing with forces you don’t understand.” 

Lucio stood stunned, and with an impressive feat of strength, Morga kicked him in the chest, knocking him to the ground, winding him. She hauled her spear at Lucio, and Iris thought, for a horrible moment, that it would be the end, but it struck violently in the ground next to his ear, rattling loudly. 

“I’m going to spoil you one last time.” She whispered; Iris saw the beginnings of mist in her eyes. “Run for your life, my child. I’m giving you a head start.” 

The words had hardly left her lips before Lucio scrambled to his feet and took off running in the dark, the snow crunching loudly, ingloriously under his feet. Iris felt the slime on his skin, thick like shame, as he bounded through the trees, as the forest buzzed with life around him, red beetles, their shiny carapaces clicking as they unburrowed out of the ground like smoke, swarming behind him, following his every panicked move, choking out Iris’s vision, swirling, swirling madly. 

... 

The room, Lucio’s bedchambers – Iris was trembling underneath him, the dense power of his trunk and arms towering over her as he leered at her, one corner of his lips raised in a satisfied smirk – she was in the soft blush lace, he was shrugging the red satin robe from his shoulders slowly, savoring the way she cowered for him. 

He dipped down, his body arced over hers as his eyes drank her down. “If you don’t tell me what you want I’ll just have to ravage you.” He growled softly – Iris gasped as his lips dipped down to the soft skin of her chest, just above the swells of her breasts, almost tender. “I won’t be able to help myself...” His lips just touched the necklace, the diamond starburst, that sat against her sternum – his blue eyes flitted to hers, not a question, but a disbelief, a moment of uncertainty. Hesitation. That same, strange, desperate adoration. A searching. An emptiness. 

Hot tears spilled from her cheeks, and her lips trembled – the diamond shattered against his cheek, hardly a sigh. He reared off her, roaring, and she ripped the chain off her neck and threw it in his face, her robe was in her hands, over her shoulders, he was screeching as the door slammed behind her - “You fool!” – 

But when the door flew open with a bang, and she startled, stumbled – she turned to him, her hand over her pounding, hammering heart. His nakedness, arched and contorted in the doorway, all shame discarded. His heaving chest, his eyes wild and livid before they sparkled with tears. The way he dropped to his knees, hard, the grimace that twisted his face exactly the one she had seen over and over and over in his memories. “Why won’t you love me?” He sobbed, his eyes pointed, mortified, to the tile floor, his human hand covering his mouth, trying desperately to hide from her. 

Her hand was on the handle to the hallway – it seemed to hum under her fingers, calling to her, urging her forward, away, even as her fingers slid from it, and she turned back. The antechamber was long, but even her whisper carried. 

"Of course.” She was surprised that her voice cracked, that her lips quivered, that tears rolled down her face. “Of course you thought this was love. This was all you knew, from the very beginning.” 

Lucio looked up to her, his eyes shining, and the vibrating reds of the papered, wood-warm walls warped and reticulated – everything grew velvety, dark-throated, some of the reds deepening, others breathing into orange, to gold-yellow, rising above Iris’s head in a tornado of flower petals. Then they were stilling, stilling, just swaying in a gentle breeze as they stretched across Iris’s vision and coalesced, coating everything like snow. 

No – Iris was standing on the taiga, mid-summer, the juicy, fragrant sun beating down on her bare back. As far as she could see, the field was aflame with marigold blooms, swaying like dancers on the gentle breeze that rolled through the plains, the sky a wild, screaming blue, blanketed with puffy, pillowy clouds that reminded Iris achingly of Asra. 

The child had long disappeared from her arms – or rather, she realized as she scanned the field, locating his little towhead just a few paces in front of her, this was his memory, where he belonged. His colorless eyes were pointed to the sky, his fingers gently running over the heads of the blooms, relishing their silky texture, their distinct musky smell. 

Iris approached him gently, quietly, but he didn’t turn; instead, he sat and laid back between the blooms, his eyes still pointed to the sky as the puffy clouds rolled through the little eye the plants created. Iris laid down next to him, but still he didn’t stir, just watching with stars in his eyes, basking in the wonder of the universe. 

Iris sighed deeply as she, too, let the clouds entrance her. “It’s hard to believe you were a child, too.” She whispered, more to herself than to him. “How can anyone who was once a child become so heartless, so cruel?” 

“Children are capable of fathomless cruelty.” Iris started when the child Lucio spoke, his voice high and sweet and small as he reached his hand out to the sky, miming grasping the clouds in his hands. “Once they’ve learned to be afraid.” 

Iris watched him, her eyes wide – already, already, she could feel the mists creeping into the corners of her eyes. “When did you learn to be afraid, Lucio?” 

For a long moment, he didn’t speak, his eyes far away. “Too early.” He whispered, finally. “It was all I knew.” 

Iris reached out and brushed away an errant blond curl that fell into his eyes. “You had who knew how to properly love you. So fear grew in its place. Oh...” She bit her quivering lip, eyes wet again. 

He turned to her, his wide child’s eyes watering, blinking back the tears. “Are you afraid?” 

“I’m so afraid.” She whispered. “There are so many things I’m afraid of. I’m afraid of dying. I’m afraid of losing Ilya, of losing Asra. Of not being able to save them. I’m afraid of my friends getting hurt. I’m afraid of letting everyone down. I’m afraid of letting the Devil win.” She was only vaguely aware of the way her voice was changing, softening, growing higher and sweeter, childlike. “But the hope I have, the love I have. It’s stronger than the fear. I don’t want it to win.” She realized now her hand’s were a child’s hands, her arms were a child’s arms as she held them out to the trembling thing in front of her. “You don’t have to let your fear win either, Lucio.” 

With a quiver of his lips, he folded into her arms, tears rolling onto her shoulder. She held him, her heart pounding, as he shook, as the marigolds swayed around them, as the clouds rolled lazily across the sky. 

Then, the sound – laughter, ringing like bells sweetly through the air. Iris and Lucio turned, peeking out over the blooms, as several children rushed towards them, laughing and playing with each other, chasing, tumbling through the flowers. A gap-toothed girl with freckled, latte-colored skin, her scalp coiled with long braids; a lighter-skinned boy besides her, his downy hair dark and soft as it shone in the sun, as he watched her with wonder. A whole tribe of dark-skinned sisters, hair every color of the rainbow – one of them, the youngest, her amethyst hair falling down her back in pinned back waves, outstretched her hand to the two of them as she danced, laughed, twirled, her garnet eyes glimmering mischievously. The green-haired sister hung back, her fingers delicately twined through the hand of a sweet, shy boy, already tall, already broad-chested, his long dark hair braided back and threaded through with tiny wildflowers as he scanned the scene with wide, emerald-green eyes. 

At the head of the pack was a gangly, red-headed kid, pale skin sprayed with freckles, gray eyes sensitive, a little shy, his smile wide and sweet. He was holding hands with two other children, the one at his right so, so young, her sky-blue eyes looking at everything with wonder, her head haloed with ginger curls as she toddled along beside him; the other was laughing, laughing, his smile taking up his entire little face, dimples popping against his amber skin, his violet eyes sparkling with joy. He let his hand slip from the redhead’s and raced to them, embracing Iris, pulling both of them up and into the gaggle of children. 

Then they were playing, chasing each other, tumbling, laughing, rolling through the blooms; the sisters braided flowers through their hair, the redhead hoisted his sister onto his shoulders and ran her through the fields while she shrieked with laughter, the cloud-headed child showed Lucio and Iris how to make the marigold buds bloom. Lucio wrestled with the dark-haired boys, and Iris sang with the gap-toothed girl, danced with the redheaded boy and the violet-eyed child, twirling and hugging and giggling. The redhead twirled her out on his arm, and the hand that caught hers was Lucio’s, pulling her into his embrace, which she welcomed, returned, her arms entangled with his, warmth radiating from his child’s body. 

Then there was a horrible crack of lightning, pure white and blinding; it sliced the sky and struck the field not far from them, gilded fire bursting bright through the blooms. Iris jumped, looking towards the light, the rapidly growing wildfire; she was in her adult body, kneeling on the ground, knees together helplessly, her nostrils filling with smoke. In front of her was Lucio, adult Lucio, curled in the fetal position, his crimson eyes red-rimmed and frantic, tears streaming down his cheeks as he clutched at the back of his head. 

A voice boomed over the field. “Do you think you can hide from me, you grub?” It was Morga, her tone even and cold, even as it thundered through the fire – in the woman’s palm was a golden flame, and her eyes, her eyes, were as fierce and golden, as piercing as an eagle’s as they swung, unseeing, over Iris’s form. They snapped to Lucio, and she scowled. “You are my son; I will find you. And then I’ll right this wrong I’ve done.” 

The rest of the children had disappeared; it was just Lucio and Iris now, and he was trembling, shaking on his knees. “You made me this way!” He screamed at her as he cowered. “I did what I needed to to have what you promised me was mine!” 

She sneered now. “Petulant child. One day, you’ll thank me for this. For doing what needed to be done.” She strode through the marigolds, stomping on the ones that had not been consumed by the golden flames, grabbing Lucio roughly by his hair before yanking him up to his feet. “You spoiled, useless boy.” 

“Nothing I ever did was good enough for you!” Lucio whimpered. “I did everything you asked of me! I gave you my magic. I became a killer. I let you kill Feroze! I took Sarangerel as a mate. I became Count of Vesuvia, no matter the cost. And still… still you refused to acknowledge me!” Fat tears were rolling down his face. “No matter what I did… no matter how hard I tried…you wouldn’t – you never –” 

Morga shook him by his hair, drawing a howl of pain from her son. “You embarrass me. You think you can earn my love with your tears? You’re a disappointment. I wish your father had never planted you in my womb.” 

“That’s enough!” Iris said loudly, standing now – Lucio jerked his head towards her, but Morga, the ferocious, warped memory of her, was unmoved. Iris reached her hands out to Lucio, the marks on her palms glowing. “I know it hurts.” She whispered. “But you don’t need her. You can learn to love yourself, Lucio.” She trembled. “This is how to Devil ensnared you. He promised you power, what your mother never gave you. But that isn’t what you want, not really. What you want is love, isn’t it?” 

Lucio’s eyes met Iris’s for just a split-second, just long enough for her to see the primordial fear that painted his features; then, his face contorted into a soul-rending scream as the sky cracked above them, slivered through with blinding white, as Iris gasped, as silvery, welcoming smoke filled her eyes, her mouth, her lungs –

*******

Warm, bleeding hands circled her wrist, her waist, hauling her upwards; Iris gasped as shivering air rushed into her lungs, harsh and cold and shattering, more, more than she could ever remember feeling. She convulsed at the ice-cold water enveloping her sensitive skin, jolting her electric nerves - she felt heavy, she felt solid, she felt _alive_ in Asra’s arms as he clutched her to him, kicking his strong legs through the ink-black water as he swam them back towards the shore with a skilled, practiced sidestroke. She bucked in his arms, turning back towards the center of the pool, scanning for Lucio; Julian’s voice, high and taut and terrified, cut through the starry, snowy silence. 

“Iris! Asra!” He yelled desperately from the edge of the pool, his palms outstretched to them; the waters around them surged, pulling them to the shore, into his waiting arms. He buckled a little under Iris’s new weight, and all three of them collapsed to their knees on the snow-covered sand. They hardly paid it any heed, Asra’s bleeding hands carding through Iris’s hair, his palms coming to rest on her cheeks as he pressed his forehead to hers. 

“You could have died, my heart, both of you...” He inhaled shakily as Julian’s hand smoothed soothingly over his back. “You could have been caught in the spaces between, living and dead, waking and sleep, the void.” 

Iris’s eyes went wide as she turned back to the pool. “No…” She whispered. “It took us to the Moon’s realm.” She fought Asra’s grip, clambering out of his arms and scrambling on her knees to the water’s edge, Asra and Julian clawing wildly, confusedly, after her, just as an animal howl churned through the water. 

Lucio burst through the surface, him but not, the black water clinging to his white fur like burns as he flailed, searching for them, his glowing red eyes wide and panicked. “NO!” He screamed as his gaze finally fell on the three of them, the firm outline of Iris’s body, the weight of her knees, her hand in the snow, the other outstretched desperately to him. 

“You thieving little cunt!” He screamed as he tried to thrash through the water, but he was weighed down – Iris saw now the chains flying across his chest, his arms, his neck now, gleaming obsidian, so thick, so heavy, that she could barely see underneath. “It’s… it’s not possible… it can’t be… you _TRICKED_ me!”

“Lucio, no!” She cried; impossibly, impossibly, tears were rolling down her cheeks as she strained towards him, crawling forwards, her glowing hand shimmering in the water, the other casting her light over the pool, shining with the moon, the stars, that blinked feebly overhead. 

“THIEF!” Lucio roared, arching wildly, feebly, against his fetters. “Give it back to me! It’s mine! I earned it! MINE!” 

Iris stumbled forward, only to be yanked back forcefully by Asra, his eyes vibrating in horror. Julian’s mouth was agape in disbelief. “Find the child!” Iris screamed. “Acknowledge your fear! He wants you to be free!” 

“Fear?!” Lucio roared, mouth wide, sharpened teeth bared. “I’m not afraid of anything! Not Death, not the Devil… not you!” 

“That’s not true!” Iris yelled, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Lucio, I can help you, but you have to want to change! You have to try!” 

“No! I fear nothing! Nothing was…” Lucio’s wails grew shapeless now as his chains threatened to drag him down, his mouth filling with water; to her surprise, Julian’s voice joined hers. 

“Let us help you.” He whispered softly, his hand falling on Iris’s back, almost as if willing Lucio to listen, to see; his face was a study of devastation. Asra’s gaze darted between the two of them, his face a riot of emotions Iris couldn’t name, before compassion dawned in his otherworldly eyes, his mouth falling slowly open as he looked at both of them with renewed adoration. 

Soft screeches, muffled as if by a mouthful of cotton, no, of thick water, echoed through the gate, and Iris saw it certainly this time – hazy, snakelike forms weaving through the darkness of the pool, their teeth a slimy yellow, their eyes gleaming like coals. Lucio was trapped, his chains holding him in place as the form reared out of the water and opened its inhuman mouth, full of too many, too many razor-sharp teeth. Iris was reminded, her entire body shaking with fear, of Valdemar. 

With a screech that vibrated in Iris’s very bones, the shape sunk its jaw into Lucio’s good shoulder, drawing from him a scream of unimaginable pain. Another shape slipped through the surface of the pool, slow and thick like a snail’s slime, twining through his limbs and around and around his neck, licking at his ear. 

“ _I’ve been so hungry…_ ” It hissed, and Iris could almost feel, imagine, the heat of its breath against her skin. “ _You promised… but you never paid your due…_ ” 

Asra gasped loudly, involuntarily, and his hands tightened around Iris’s, around Julian’s as he pulled them both back away from the water’s edge – he folded Iris against his chest, and Julian instinctively wrapped his arm around Asra’s waist, his broad back shielding them both. Iris’s shoulders were shaking as Asra pressed his cheek into her back; as his magic coursed through her, warm and calming. She and Julian watched, wide-eyed and horrified, as two more shapes rose from the pool’s waters, circling Lucio like hawks stalking prey. 

“ _We are weary… we have waited so long..._ ” Another voice, a resonant, reedy whine, split through the still air as a third shape sunk its teeth into Lucio’s form, tugging him downwards into the pool. 

“Please…” Lucio begged, limbs flailing, water churning, as he finally, finally, fought for his life. “Please, give me a little more time – I’ll pay you threefold – ” 

“ _No._ ” The final shape, the final voice, voluptuous, booming, sang across the snow, the sand. “ _We have waited long enough. You are out of time._ ” 

Lucio screamed as they all wrapped around him in unison, and his head was dragged down below the surface without a sound, without a bubble, a ripple; even through the water, the lovers could hear the horrible laughter reverberating up through the water like a terrifying swan song. They barely breathed, barely moved, cowering in each other’s arms as they stared at the spot where Lucio disappeared; only when the broken ice reformed over the dark spring, like a scab knitting together, did it sink in that he would never return. 

Finally, Iris let out a wretched sob, curling forward onto her own knees; she shook, violently, as she cried for Lucio. Asra and Julian both held her, Asra smoothing down her hair, his eyes far away, as Julian gently kissed her temple, her cheek, her ears, tears stinging in his eyes. 

It was Asra who broke the silence. “Lucio must have dealt with forces other than the Devil.” He murmured. “Those were his patrons, coming to collect. You did everything you could, my heart. It’s not your fault. Even if you broke the Devil’s chains...” 

Iris shook her head, violently. “He never had a chance.” She stammered, her voice thick and sour in her throat. “He never knew anything but fear.” 

“Oh, darling. _Draga slatki moj._ ” Julian whispered, his lips quivering against her ear. “Only those who are afraid can cause that much pain.” 

It was still a long time before Iris stopped crying.

*******

“Asra.” Iris muttered, her voice still raw. “You’re sure?” 

Asra nodded once, certainly, his sturdy hand squeezing hers; even so, his other hand was threaded through his thick cloak, squeezing and releasing the soft, worn fabric like a heartbeat. 

It was Julian who had summoned their clothes while Asra and Iris built the little cairn, right at the pool’s edge; Iris still wasn’t sure how to handle the feeling of the dress against her skin, the way the velvet cloak weighed heavily on her shoulders as her breath rushed, stinging and bittersweet, through her lungs. Her body, her body, was back, she was real again, but at the expense of another.

“We can’t stay long.” Asra said quietly now, sensing Iris’s stillness. “Are you ready?” 

Julian, his hand in Iris’s other, smiled softly. “I am.” He murmured, drawing her hand up to his lips, kissing the tips of her fingers. “ _Draga_ , are you...?” 

She nodded, not trusting her voice. Asra snapped his fingers; the candle lit, the little teacup that he summoned from the shop filled with water, and the sandalwood incense caught softly. At the seat of the altar was a little chunk of faceted onyx, pried from Julian’s cufflink; at the center was a marigold, red petals, golden-throated, grown from Iris’s burnt, scabbed palm. 

Asra opened his mouth to say something, but closed it, softly biting his full lips together. Julian gulped quietly before he spoke. “You were a selfish bastard.” He whispered. “But I wish you well.”

“In your next life...” Iris began, her voice shaky. “I hope you find what you were searching for here.” She suppressed the little whimper that split painfully in her throat. “I hope you find the light, mearcstapa.” 

The sky above them trembled and broke, rain weeping softly on them as Iris’s words burrowed away, away, into the ether. Iris saw the little golden glow in her periphery – Aisha and Salim’s gate was waiting patiently. For a long moment, they were all silent, the rain soaking through their clothes. “We should go.” Asra finally muttered, resting his head on Iris’s shoulder tenderly. 

“I know.” Iris whispered. Julian leaned down and kissed her cheek, his lips warm, his hands gentle as he threaded his fingers through her drenched hair. 

“You did everything you could.” He reassured her. “We can’t save everyone. A wise woman once told me that.” 

Iris nodded softly, a certainty steeling up in her as she leaned into Julian’s touch, let the strength of Asra’s magic warm her veins, his skin soft and silken against hers. “Let’s go.” She murmured. 

Asra let the blood bloom from his palms, placing his hands on the doorframe as the symbols glowed white, purple, red, and white again. The door swung open; all Iris saw was purple smoke, heard the sibilant hum of running water. The air was perfumed with jasmine and lavender, with the breath of the living. Alive, alive and real. 

Together, they stepped through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> Sonnet in Which the Poet Asks Her Readers to Feel Compassion For A Tyrant And Then Kills Him Violently
> 
> ...see you in Judgment, y'all.


	9. Judgment, Part 1: Give Me A Spark I Can Look For Instead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Speedy Ortiz, Lizzo, Lazerbeak - Puffer (Lazerbeak Remix)**
> 
> _CW: Fighting and violence, brief depictions of war and starvation, worms?_

Even though the room they stepped into was dimly lit, it took Iris a moment to blink back the bright as her new eyes adjusted. She’d barely regained her sight before she was bowled over completely, a muscled, warm body nuzzling against hers, licking her chin, her cheeks, her mouth. Vasalisa whined gratefully as Iris stroked her silky ears and cooed, pressing their foreheads together, her lilting laughter joyful and relieved. 

Just meters away from them, an indignant squawk announced that Malak had descended on Julian’s body as he groaned and clutched his forehead, as his muscles twitched tentatively, testing the newly reformed tether of brain to synapse to muscle. At his side, stretching liquidly, Asra stirred with a little moan as Faust pressed her nose to his, her forked tongue flicking out to lavish tender kisses on his face as he roused. 

A tall shape rose in the corner of Iris’s eyes, and she jumped, turning towards it, her hand flying to the hilt of her swords, but it was only Muriel who emerged from the shadows, his thick brow furrowed, his lips pursed as his confused gaze fell on Iris.

She followed his gaze, glancing down – her clothing had changed yet again. Her dress was now long and flowing, wrought with gray, tiered lace woven through with suns, moons, stars, flowers of all kinds: sweet peas and forget-me-nots. Lavender and asters. Starstrand and foxglove, intertwined with white lilies. Irises and marigolds. Each thread seemed to glitter and split the light, shimmering in a rainbow of hues with even the slightest movement. Around her neck, nestled in the embroidered sweetheart neckline, was the moon-shaped emerald from Asra. Her short hair was set in slick, undulating little waves against her brow. But even more noticeable than her clothing was her aura, swirling softly from her, opalescent and shifting, streaked through now with purple and red. 

“Your body.” Muriel said softly, almost a question. Iris nodded, almost disbelieving as she held her hands up, her fingers dripping in rings of peridot, amethyst, jade, the moonstone and onyx ring from Julian that was still nestled in the crook of her betrothal finger, the sliver of lapis from Asra nestled above it, as mark of the bargain on her palms glowed. 

“It didn’t come cheap.” She whispered as Vasalisa nuzzled against her lap, vibrating with a soft, low, mournful growl. 

“No, it didn’t.” Asra said quietly, sitting up woozily, Faust twined across his shoulders, burrowing happily into the gauzy folds of his masquerade vest; he made to run his fingers through his curls, only to find them slicked back down, plastered to his temples. He turned to Muriel. “Thank you for watching over us, Muri. How long…?” 

“An hour.” He answered. “Maybe longer.” 

“And the ritual?” It was Julian who spoke now, still sprawled out on his back, Malak perching on his shoulder and preening his feathered collar, his eternally-mussed hair. 

Muriel’s face fell, his eyes downcast. “I think it’s started. I couldn’t leave, and the tower is protected with some enchantment. But I kept hearing things. Explosions, shouts. Screams. And… I can feel it.” He paused now, voice soft. “Like a spiral of intrusive thoughts.” 

“A compulsion.” Iris muttered, her stomach dropping.

“What? No… that can’t be right…” Julian murmured, glancing at Asra and Iris in turn. “If the ritual is to bind the Devil to Lucio…” 

Iris inhaled sharply as Asra’s eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t to bind the Devil to Lucio. It was to bind the Fool’s body to the Devil. So he could gain the Fool’s power.” He said darkly. 

“And one Fool’s as good as another.” Iris finished for him, a shiver running down her spine at the thought of his breath on her face, his claws around her neck again. 

Muriel’s gaze shifted, befuddled, between the three of them. “What happened to Lucio?” He finally asked.

It was still too raw; Iris didn’t blame Muriel when his eyes flew wide as a little tear slipped down Iris’s cheek. She shook her head, her voice failing her – the light from her palms surged, like a mother’s breast leaking when her baby cried.

Julian, sitting up now, reached over and wrapped his arm around Iris’s shoulder comfortingly. Asra’s body arched towards both of them, even as it tensed, torn. “Lucio was killed.” He explained quietly, his expression careful, even. “Iris tried to free him, but he…” 

“He couldn’t let go of his fear. His chains.” Iris whispered. 

“And his patrons were hungry. He hadn’t held up his end of his bargains.” Julian muttered, his lips in Iris’s hair, breath hot and sweet and calm, impossibly so, against her now-real skin.

Muriel closed his eyes, lost in thought. “That sounds like Lucio.” When his eyelids fluttered open, Iris saw a whisper of compassion; Iris’s heart twisted with quiet pride. “You tried to free him? How?” 

Iris stared down at the still-glowing hands in her lap, the raw, red scars. “The deal I made with the Devil, to protect others. I can break the Devil’s chains, if the other person lets me. And his powers don’t seem to affect me now.” She thought of the way the chains by the pool bounced away from her, as if they were afraid of her. 

Muriel’s brows furrowed. “If the Devil is trying to throne with the Fool’s body, he’ll need you at the ritual. But you don’t feel the compulsion?”

Iris took a deep breath, seven breaths in and seven breaths out. She felt the Devil’s power, red, torpid, unctuous, coalescing around the auras of her lovers, of Muriel; the compulsion was tugging at their edges, gently, softly, protected by the magic Nadia’s tower. Muriel was the most strained, having fought it back the longest. But couldn’t feel it at all. 

She opened her eyes. “No.” She said softly. “I feel nothing.” 

Asra’s eyes were wide. “Iris…” He whispered, leaning forward now and grabbing her hands; his palms were still bleeding, and Iris healed them without thinking, passing soft pulses of gold light over his amber skin. “I think I’ve figured it out. How we can beat the Devil.” 

Iris’s eyes wide flew open, regarding his shocked face carefully; Julian, at her side, inhaled softly, hopefully. Asra opened his mouth to explain, his eyes sparkling with surety, when an explosion shook all four of them to their knees. 

The thundering that echoed in the stairwell to the contemplation tower was otherworldly, inhuman, making Iris’s ears ring; a hundred pairs of feet stomping up towards them, their footfalls heavy as stone. Muriel sprang to life first, warrior instincts kicking in – with a percussive clang, Muriel drew the battleaxe still strapped to his back, as Inanna and Vasalisa jumped in front of them all, hackles raised, as the little doorway overflowed with perfectly carved, snow-white bodies. 

Marble statue after marble statue, from the palace's hallways, the gardens, the galleries, spilled into the tiny room, flanking a figure that Iris didn’t recognize at first, their image was so twisted. A gnarled, curled horn sprung from one side of their face, nearly the size of Iris’s head and crowned with mottled, matted fur. Their eyes were yellow, the pupils squared and squinting, the angles of their thin face so sharp they could cut. The tattered formal uniform of the Consul couldn’t hide the clawed hand that clutched a violently full glass of red wine, nor the gauntness of their already painfully thin body, now ravaged by the Devil’s magic. Valerius. 

“So this is where you were holed away, like rats.” Valerius hissed, his voice folded over and over, layered terrifyingly. He lifted the wineglass to his lips; Iris watched in horror as the wine soured black in the glass as he drank. “You thought you could hide from the Devil.” 

“No one is hiding, Valerius.” Iris stood, her hand on the hilt of her swords, fanning behind Muriel; Asra and Julian rose behind her, Asra’s aura growing, crackling audibly, Julian’s fists clenched as he took a fighting stance. “Unlike you. Where did you and the rest of the Chamber worm off to?” 

Valerius looked down his nose at Iris, towering several centimeters over her now on his warped, cloven legs. “Not that it concerns you, but we had some preparations to make.” He sniffed. “The Devil waits for no one, pretty fool. Though I understand you know firsthand how persuasive he can be.”

Iris’s palms glowed, unbidden. “He fooled me once.” She hissed softly. “Never again.” 

“Oh, but Iris.” Valerius laughed softly, almost sympathetically. “Once you have a taste of what he can offer you, your thirst will never be quenched.” He snapped the fingers of his human hand, and the statues sprang to life once more, hurtling towards them all.

They all reacted quickly, reflexively; Muriel slashed through several of the statues with one fluid motion of his battleaxe as Asra cast a powerful ward over all of them. Inanna and Vasalisa both rushed forward, sinking their teeth and claws into the frontmost statues, wrenching the stone apart with the ferocity of bears. Even Malak, with an eardrum-piercing shriek, swept down onto one of the statues, pecking ferociously at stoney, blank eyes.

Iris dropped gracefully to her knees, her glowing palms spread over the polished quartz of the floor; from this, she formed, drew, a rapier of astounding length, the globe of the hilt decorated with blooming starstrands. She handed back to Julian adroitly just as another wave of statues crushed towards them – he leapt forward, rapier brandished skillfully, as Muriel easily swept through his side of the flank.

Julian fought the stone soldiers, unwieldy in their sudden movements, as Asra cast spell after spell, massive icicles that pierced the statues through, felling them, slowing them by increasing gravity under their sculpted feet. Muriel mowed through them easily, even as they surged towards him, targeted him, he shook them off like they were drops of water on his back. 

Julian was pressing forward through the crush, slicing through and lopping off heads of the statues like they were made of butter; Iris saw immediately what he was doing, cutting a path to Valerius, who was watching his lackeys get cut down with what could only be described as an infuriated scowl. Iris slipped behind Julian, blasting back more of the statues with powerful waves of force. 

Valerius, with a frightened rise of his jagged brow, dropped his wineglass with a sibilant crash, turned on his heel and flew down the stairs just as Iris and Julian broke through the ranks; lips curled into a growl, Julian rushed after him on long, elegant strides, Iris scrambling to keep up with both of them. 

Down and down and down the spiral staircase they raced, Iris’s heart pounding as she heard the echoing din of the battle above her. Yet she knew, she knew, Asra and Muriel would be okay – she already could see the cracks in Valerius’ facade, the fear that quaked through his demonic form. She could only see Julian’s back, his hair wild as he deftly descended the stairs, Iris taking them two at a time just to keep up. 

And then they stopped suddenly, Julian extending his arm across the steps, Iris halting just short; Valerius wheeled back, wrenching a curved, decorative shamshir from the wall, brandishing the blade at Julian, his square-pupiled eyes wild. 

“I will not be bested by Lucio’s junkie plaything.” He growled; slashing the sword once through the air, the blade whistling in warning. Iris reared back, but Julian stood firm. 

“I didn’t willingly crawl into Lucy’s bed.” He snarled. “That’s more than I can say of you.” Julian extended his sword, and then, with an echoing clang of Valerius’ parry, it just the flashing of steel on steel. 

Julian had the advantage, height and strength but also higher ground, but it became clear to Iris that Julian’s ramshackle pirate training couldn’t hold a candle to whatever tutoring Valerius had received in preparation for his role as Consul. Yet, Julian seemed the more practiced fighter, parrying and striking unconventionally, throwing Valerius off guard, sending him stumbling back and down a step more than once. 

And then, just as suddenly, Julian disarmed Valerius with a flourish, the taper of his rapier pointed at Valerius’ chin as the Consul trembled. For a moment, Valerius looked as if he feared for his life – then his face split in a feral scowl as he grasped the shaft of the sword and forced it away, the steel slicing through his human hand as Valerius lunged for Julian’s throat with his clawed hand. 

Iris reacted just in time, her palms glowing opalescent as golden, glowing ropes sprung from the stairs, the beautiful bricked walls, stealing back Valerius’ hands, binding them at the base of his spine. He growled wildly, his animal eyes fiery as he snapped his jaws at the two of them. 

“Neither of you are worthy to lick Lucio’s boots.” He huffed, eyes flashing. “He was so… _obsessed_ with both of you, even the cagey magician…. but you didn’t even know what kind of power he could give you.” 

Iris’s eyebrows knit together, her eyes softening. “Is that why you let him have you?” She asked Valerius quietly, stepping forward to Julian’s side; instinctively, he drew her close, one arm wrapped around her waist, his sword still extended towards the bound Consul. 

Valerius sneered. “My whole life I was trained to serve the Count of Vesuvia, no matter what that entailed.” One nostril lifted, his entire wide mouth, his thin lips, coming with. “When my mother presented me to Lucio… when he came onto me that night, that bloom-viewing party… I knew better than to say no.” His voice became so, so small. “My mother taught me better than that.”

Iris felt Julian’s body tense beside her. “Your mother _made_ you?” He murmured. 

For a moment, Iris saw the raw hurt on Valerius’ demonic face, the way doubt contorted his pointed, painful features. “She practically threw me at him.” He mumbled. “To distract him. She was determined to find the source of the plague. To protect the city.” A pitiful expression ripped across his face, and for a moment, Iris thought he might cry. “She cared far more for the city, the state, for her power, than she ever cared for me.” 

For a moment, Iris was silent, trembling in Julian’s arms. His hand around her waist tightened, his warm gray eyes flashing to hers – the tiniest curl of a smile, encouraging. It was enough. “If I know anything of mothers...” Iris whispered, turning back to Valerius, expression softening. “It’s that they want what’s best for their children. Even when they get it wrong.” 

“You _barely_ knew her.” Valerius hissed, rearing forward. “The lengths she would go to get what she wanted, what she thought was best. She’s the one who fed Lucio that obscure rule of succession, while they were in bed together, no less. She’s the one who installed him as the Count.” He huffed softly now, almost smiling, like it were some sick joke. “The Devil made him pay dearly for that power. His dominant arm.” 

“Yet you came to care for him, didn’t you?” Iris offered, her voice soft in her compassion, her palms glowing. “I saw. I saw the way you looked at him. The way he treated you. He cared for you, in his way. He tried.” 

Valerius shook, his yellow eyes falling on Iris now. “He was… difficult. Condescending and domineering one day, needy and childish the next. I tried to appease him, but nothing… nothing was ever enough.” He sneered, even as his lips trembled. “He was obsessed with more, more power, more conquests… once he had me, I wasn’t enough. He was always scheming, how to get you in his bed, little fool. How to trick you. How to trap you.”

Iris smiled, extended her hand to Valerius. “He was afraid. He didn’t know how to love, Nero. No one had ever shown him how.” 

“He was lonely.” Valerius countered, softly. “And loving him was lonely.” 

“Yes. He was lonely and afraid his whole life.” Slowly, tentatively, Iris placed her hand on Valerius’ fur-covered cheek; he flinched, but didn’t move away. “Did you let the Devil do this to you because you loved him?”

Valerius shook, his eyes fluttering closed. “The ritual, three years ago. When I went to appeal to the Hierophant, a man came to me instead, black hair, black eyes, like inkwells. He promised me the Hierophant’s power – if I didn’t accept, the ritual would fail.” 

“So you accepted.” Julian said softly, drawing the tip of his sword down slightly. 

Valerius nodded, his voice quivering as his gaze dropped, his neck stooped. “I didn’t know it was the Devil who approached me until I was in his claws. The ritual failed anyway, and I was distraught. Then Nadia fell into her sleep, and I was made the seat of Vesuvia. I was terrified; I’d inherited a bankrupt, plague-infested city on the verge of collapse. He came to me again, promising me more power, more authority. Every time, it became easier. And still, it was never enough. The poor still starved. The flooded district rotted. The plague-orphans suffered.” Before their eyes, the obsidian chains, shadowy, like ghosts, appeared on Valerius’ shoulders, his waist, his arms. “In the end, I became just like her… always looking for more power…”

“I can free you.” Iris’s hand slid from Valerius’s cheek to his shoulder, careful not to touch the fetters. “I can cut these chains from you. Free you from the Devil’s lies.”

Valerius’ head shot up; his eyes were glistening. “What will happen to Lucio?” 

Iris’s face fell; in her periphery, she saw Julian look away, lowering his rapier. Valerius trembled visibly under Iris’s touch. “He’s gone, isn’t he?” His voice, so small, so forlorn, wrung Iris’s heart. 

“Iris offered him the same thing.” Julian said softly. “He couldn’t see she was offering him absolution.” 

He looked at Julian, his eyes wide, before turning to Iris. “After everything he did… after how he hurt you, your lovers… hurt the entire realm… you tried to save him?” 

The words came before Iris knew what she was saying. “You can always come back.” She murmured. “No matter what you’ve done. You can always choose the light.” Julian’s hand around Iris’s waist pulled her ever so closer; she could feel the hum of his blood pounding in his veins, see the tender compassion in his brows, the beginnings of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips as he looked at Iris with unabashed adoration. 

“He didn’t deserve it.” Valerius said after a long moment, regarding the two of them carefully. “He wasn’t a good man. You’re fools to think he could change.” 

“He wasn’t good.” Julian said quietly, his gaze still not breaking from Iris. “But he deserved our compassion. He deserved a second chance.” His smile was so, so warm. “Everyone deserves a second chance. Iris taught me that.” 

Iris touched Julian’s jaw, let her fingertips whisper down his neck, returning his adoring smile for the briefest moment before turning to Valerius. “You can have a second chance, too. It won’t erase what you’ve done. But you can start anew, without the Devil at your back.” She held her hand out to him. “And if he comes for you again, we’ll face him together.” 

Valerius inhaled quietly, once, before bowing his head. “Help me.” He whispered. “Help me, please. I’m at your mercy.” The chains over his warped form coalesced, glinting darkly, snaking over his chest and shoulders as lazily as frozen cobras. 

Julian stepped back as Iris drew the sword, the shorter one, from her hip with the metallic hum of blade on steel. Valerius looked at her with wide eyes, his expression painted half with fear, half with reverence. “Don’t be afraid.” Iris reassured him, her voice soft, silken. “Everything will be okay.” And the blade sang down. 

The chains screamed and rushed past the three of them like furies, their shrieks bouncing over the narrow stone stairwell just as it shook with footsteps. Asra and Muriel appeared behind them, their clothes disheveled, Vasalisa and Inanna at their heels, Malak circling above them; everyone whole, unharmed. For a moment, nothing else happened; then Valerius’ form began to change, to melt. He howled with pain, his back arched, as the fur that crowned his head receded, the horn retracted, as the animal pupils of his eyes widened and rounded, whiting out, the cool-gray irises blooming in his sclera.

He reeled forward, and Iris caught him, her hands around his waist as warm energy emanated from him, seeming to sink into Iris’s own body, swelling through her before dissipating. His cheeks were fuller than Iris had ever seen them, his long hair more lustrous as it fell down his back in undulating waves, black to gray to strawberry-blonde. He touched his face, disbelievingly, before looking back up at Iris, eyes wide with shock. 

Then the staircase rattled violently and explosion boomed in the distance; Iris felt more than heard the echoing roar of rage, of pain, that seared through the sky like fireworks. Hands fell on Iris, Asra’s warm hands lifting her into his arms as Muriel grabbed Julian and Valerius both, pulling them down the staircase as it practically crumbled around them – they barely made it to the door to Nadia’s chambers before the entire tower collapsed around them. 

Asra’s breath was hot, panting in her ear as he pressed his lips to her skin. “My heart… you freed Valerius. Are you okay?” He whispered as Muriel set both Valerius and Julian down, quickly procuring four charms from his cloak, passing them out to the two men and Asra, slinging his own around his neck on its long lanyard. 

Iris kissed Asra’s lips; Faust, from the folds of Asra’s gown, wrapped her muscled form around Iris’s shoulders, squeezing gently as Vasalisa circled Asra’s legs. “I’m fine. You?” 

Asra chuckled as he let her down from his arms, turning to Julian and craning up to press a kiss against his cheek, too. “A few bumps and bruises, but I’ve fought hungry orphans tougher than those statues.” He glanced sidelong, warily, at Valerius, who pinked visibly. 

“My apologies.” He muttered, mortified. With some color in his cheeks, he was quite handsome. 

“We need a plan.” Muriel grumbled, his voice low. At Iris’s feet, Vasalisa circled, pressing her tense, muscled body against Iris’s calves; Malak landed on Julian’s shoulders, preening his disheveled hair with a soft, crinkling cackle. 

“Valerius.” Iris turned back to him. “Where are the rest of the Courtiers?” 

Valerius snorted, his full lips turning up into a sneer as his brow furrowed. “The Devil sent me to find you; he told me your bodies were hid here, in the contemplation tower. Volta and Vlastomil, he sent to ensure the rest of the guests for the ritual were brought to him. Valdemar and Vulgora, he kept at his side. Ostensibly for protection. He was angry with all four of them. That’s why he sent me to gather you.” 

“He must have felt himself weaken, to not trust the power of the ritual’s compulsion.” Asra said eyes narrowed, lips pursed in thought. 

“He felt Lucio die.” Iris added. “And then he felt you break his chains, Valerius. That must have been what felled Nadia’s tower.” 

“A last-ditch effort.” Julian finished, brows quirked thoughtfully. “Rage at losing another ally.” 

“So what now? We split up?” Muriel’s dark, determined gaze scanned over the four of them. 

“No.” Iris said, Asra nodding softly as Julian placed his hand on his shoulder. “We’re stronger together. All of us.” Vasalisa, at her feet, let out a soft huff of assent as Inanna licked her ears.

Muriel considered this, then turned to Valerius. “Where did the others go?” 

Valerius sneered again. “I’m not sure. Certainly they would have targeted the power players first. I heard murmurings that the Queen of Prakra arrived with the Royal Consort. The Countess would have certainly received them in the ballroom.” 

“As logical first place to look as any.” Julian said with a grin. And they were off, racing through the largely abandoned corridors of the Nadia’s wing; Julian wrenched another shamshir from an ancient suit of armor and tossed it to Valerius, who caught it deftly. 

Down the wide, wide staircase they went, opening to the receiving hall opposite the black marble stairs to Lucio’s wing; Iris surveyed the wreckage in shock. All around them, Vesuvian citizens danced and danced, wildly, flailingly, jerkily, the gorgeous tile and marble floors smeared with blood from their bare feet, cut from a sparkling garden of broken glass, shattered bottles and forgotten goblets. Their masks askew, their beautiful revelers costumes ripped lewdly, they shrieked with unearthly laughter as they spun to the music, lilting faster and faster with each passing moment. 

“Maz!” Julian shouted suddenly, panic streaking his voice as he veered away from the group. Asra grabbed his shoulder just as Iris whipped around to where he was looking; there was Mazelinka, her badger’s mask resting jauntily in her striped hair as she danced with a young woman woman with ginger hair, one breast unloosed from her bodice. Mazelinka was drinking wine straight from the bottle, her chin and lips stained red as she grinned impossibly, painfully wide. 

She caught sight of Iris, Julian, and Asra, her pupils blown as she shrieked with glee. “ _Ilja, miljenik, pleši sa mnom!_ ” She shouted, wine dribbling from her mouth as her partner spun her out, reaching her hand wildly out to the three of them. “ _Plesajte sa svojim ljubavnicima! Svijet završava!_ ” 

“ _Trgnuti iz toga, Maz!_ ” Julian shouted desperately, grabbing hold of Mazelinka’s shoulder and shaking her, but Mazelinka grabbed hold of his wrists, painfully, making him wince as she tried to force the winebottle into his mouth. Asra knocked it deftly out of her hands, only to be grabbed from behind. He wheeled around; Selasi, sweet Selasi, their favorite baker, his lion’s mask obscuring his golden-brown eyes, was laughing wildly as he tried to pour a glass of something golden and fizzy down Asra’s throat. 

Iris grabbed both Julian and Asra and cast a ward, the strongest one she could summon; she felt Asra’s magic, Julian’s magic, well up in her as Selasi and Mazelinka both staggered back, their eyes glassy and dazed. For a moment, they both looked like they were uncertain where they were, what they were doing, and then they were dancing again, together this time, Selasi’s strong arms lifting Mazelinka with ease. 

“What… what’s happening?” Julian mumbled, watching Mazelinka spin away from him in horror. 

Muriel’s eyes were grim as he gestured to the three of them to rejoin their little party, Valerius watching them warily, his chin raised; Muriel had cast a ward around the rest of them, and his and Iris’s joined like soap bubbles as the lovers drew back, Iris’s hand falling onto the back of Muriel’s arm. 

“The ritual affects everyone in the palace.” Valerius explained darkly. “Just beginning the ritual cracks open the door to the otherside. The chaos the Devil seeks is already bleeding through.” 

“We’re not far from the ballroom.” Muriel muttered; the revelers were pressing futilely against the wards now, trying to reach them, their admonishing voices echoing maniacally through the vaulted entryway. “The best way to help them now is to stop the ritual.” Iris wrapped her arm around Julian’s waist as he glanced back at Mazelinka, squeezing him to her tenderly; Asra laid a hand on his shoulder, smoothing down the rumpled feathers of his collar, affectionate, soothing.

They pushed through the crowds, slowly, painfully, until they reached the massive doors to the ballroom. From the other side, they heard an earthshattering crash, one that would have shaken Iris to her knees had Julian and Asra not been holding onto her. Muriel, with a concerned furrow of his heavy brow, flung the polished wood doors open. 

Immediately, Iris’s instincts fired and she dove, buoyed in part by Asra’s arm around her waist yanking her to the side, Julian’s hands on her shoulders pushing her down and out of the way. Muriel grasped the Consul by the shoulder and pulled him roughly to the floor just as a glistening white form, nearly as long as the ballroom was round, crashed into the door frame, the wall above them. They all scrambled forwards as the monstrous thing slid down to the parquet wood floor, bowing and cracking under its weight. 

It was a disgustingly large worm, its segmented body writhing as it screeched in pain, what could only be its head reared towards their little group, massive mouth ringed with several rows of pointed teeth. Just as it wrenched itself aright, there was another flash of shimmering pink light from behind them, tossing the worm easily across the ballroom floor. 

Iris wheeled back; the stairwell was ringed with Satrinavas, all standing imperiously. At the crown of the stairs was Nafizah, her eyes glowing an effervescent pink as she swept her hand gracefully, almost bored, upwards, the creature floating now as it writhed. At her side, hand gently resting on her arm, was Aziz, his soft brown eyes clouded over and unfocused, and Nadia, her fine dress hiked up around her hips, a long silver sword drawn at her side, her eyes narrowed and lip curled as she sliced down smaller worms that slithered up the stairs. Nahara and her consort both were bashing worm heads in front of Nafizah, either with their staffs or their bare hands.

The two figures on Nafizah’s other side left Iris dazzled. The first, her hand laid proudly on her eldest daughter’s shoulder, was an older woman, blindingly beautiful. Life and life-giving left her body thick and voluptuous; she was dressed in all white and gold, her lush white hair waterfalling behind her back, her gilded yellow eyes piercing in her judgment as she wiped away the creatures in front of her with a swipe of her hand. 

The man at her side was younger, spryer, and crowned with devastatingly handsome features: full lips, high cheekbones, a sculpted beard and a long, long braid of light brown hair streaked with silver. He wore fantastic robes of ink-black, the fabric shimmering like an oil slick. He watched the entire scene with something like amusement, his expressive mouth curled into a wide grin. They were unmistakable – Nasrin Satrinava, the Queen of Prakra, and her Royal Consort, the father of all seven of her daughters, Namar. 

It was Nadia’s voice, dulcet and carrying even in the midst of battle, that shook Iris from her reverie. “Iris!” Her dark, lipsticked mouth, smeared from battle, split into the widest, wildest grin Iris could ever remember seeing on her. All of the Satrinavas shot surprised glances in their direction, just as Muriel, Valerius, and Julian sprang to life, steel glinting and echoing as they fought back the onslaught of worms that rushed towards them. 

Iris cast a ward around the three of them before taking Asra’s hand and running for the staircase, Vasalisa and Inanna both at their heels, tackling worms to the ground when Iris and Asra couldn’t force them back with their magic. 

When they reached the stairwell, Nahara and her consort both grabbed Iris’s outstretched hands, pulling her, then Asra, over the barricade that Iris hadn’t even seen from her vantage point, it was so covered in worms: the couches and tables that ringed the edges of the room, even the gorgeous grand piano (Iris’s heart ached). Nadia, forgetting all decorum, flung her arms around Iris and let out what seemed like a long-held breath as they embraced.

And then Nadia was holding Iris out at arms length, her penetrating garnet gaze scrambling over Iris, as if making sure she had all her limbs, her senses. “The Fool’s body…” Nadia muttered, her features both heavy and light with relief. “You’ve regained it… Oh, Iris...” 

“Welcome back, beauty.” Aziz, at Nadia’s side, turned to Iris as his eyes blinked back into focus; he smiled softly and winked. “Flesh suits you much better than the cloak of the void.” Nafizah’s unblinking gaze landed on Iris, her inscrutable expression lifting only slightly as the corners of her mouth turned with something like satisfaction, before she turned back to restraining the worm. 

“This is the illustrious Iris, then?” A broad hand clapped Iris on the shoulder before pulling her into a back-breaking embrace, her face squished against a firm, muscular chest smelling of the silkiest of perfumes, tobacco leaf and tonka bean and leather. “You’ve caused quite a stir at this party, young lady.” The Royal Consort admonished her with a wink that left Iris’s heart fluttering. “Like my youngest daughter, I’ve always had a soft spot for troublemakers. Especially the pretty ones.”

“Baba, you’re incorrigible.” Nadia tutted with a fond smile as Namar released Iris and turned to Asra. 

He raised a raffish brow at the magician before pulling him into an identical hug. “You must be Asra, her other half, then. You all had my baby girl quite sick with worry.” 

Asra managed to extricate himself, somehow unflappable even in the arms of such royalty. “Forgive me, your excellency, but I’m not sure other half is quite accurate anymore.” He glanced back to Julian, who was cutting down a massive worm with a dramatic flourish, a hellraising grin slicing across his features; he looked like he was having the time of his life. 

Namar smirked knowingly. “Ah, yes, Didi told me of your arrangement. It’s all very avant-garde.” Asra winked boldly, coyly saying nothing, and Iris couldn’t help but laugh as Namar raised his eyebrows, impressed.

“Are you quite done embarrassing Dia’s friends, _jawhrat baladi?_ ” The Empress had approached them now, her yellow eyes twinkling as she extended her hand. “I am Nasrin Satrinava, Queen of Prakra. This is my partner, Namar, the Royal Consort.” Her voice was low, almost rumbling, like the purr of a lazy, spoiled cat.

Iris squared her shoulders and took the Queen’s hand, shaking it once, firmly. “Iris Selene Keshet. I’m a magician, and the proprietor of the Indigo Child.” 

Nasrin’s eyes flew wide, before she threw her head back in a howl of laughter. “What an ordinary title for such an extraordinary woman.” She leveled her gaze with Iris’s, a knowing grin sliding across her ethereal features. “You could have told me you were the High Priestess of the Universe herself, Iris, and I would have believed you. You are a sight to behold; your aura is resplendent.” 

“She is resplendent, isn’t she?” Asra murmured softly, taking Iris’s hand, which had fallen from Nasrin’s grip, in both his hands. “Asra Salim Niraj-Alnazar. Iris is my partner, and the love of my life.” 

“That love flows freely between you.” The Queen said with a quirked brow, a knowing smile. “You two and your third. It is palpable; it touches everyone you meet.” 

Even Asra could not keep the blush from coloring his tawny cheeks as he gripped Iris’s hand tightly, his white-gloved thumb running over her knuckles subconsciously. From behind them, there was a soft hum. “If the introductions have been made.” Nafizah said serenely, her hands and eyes still glowing. “What should be done with this demon?” 

Iris turned towards the giant worm, wriggling helplessly against Nafizah, Nasrin, and Aziz’s combined magic. Just ahead of her, Julian, Muriel, and Valerius had nearly fought their way to the stairs, having cut most all of the smaller worms; the worm shrieked piteously now at the loss of their offspring. “Demon?” Iris asked, biting her lip. 

“That is the good Praetor.” Nadia explained, her lip curled. “He stormed in here while I was receiving Mama and Baba and turned into… that.” 

“And all the other horrible worms sprung forth from him.” Nafizah added. 

“He, like the rest of the Courtiers, have been corrupted by the Devil.” Aziz said curtly, his unseeing eyes glimmering dully. 

Iris turned back to him. “You can see his chains?” 

The guru’s smile was wide, wide. “I can, beauty. From a lifetime of meditation and abnegation, of learning to open the thousand-petal lotus. But you… the borderlands taught you. The Arcana taught you.” He placed both his hands on Iris’s shoulders now, not needing to see; Iris saw the dull black chains, thicker and stronger than Valerius’s, than Lucio’s, crossing over and over and over the worm’s writhing form, nearly squeezing the life out of it. 

“He’s in pain.” Iris whispered, her hand falling on the hilt of her sword.

“He has been in pain a long time, beauty.” Aziz murmured in her ear. “What will you do to end his suffering?” 

Iris answered without hesitation. “Release him.” She whispered, but Nafizah and Nasrin both heard, relinquishing their magic without protest. Vlastomil fell to the parquet floor with a slimy, sickening smack, turning Iris’s stomach. Still, she stepped forward over the barricade, Asra at her side, hands up, a powerful, violet-and-white tinged shield already flickering in front of them. Another hand fell on her shoulder; she knew the gentle, hesitant touch without looking. Nadia. 

The worm’s mouth opened horribly, showing all of its teeth, before it devolved into slime and coalesced into his humanoid form, the eyeless, sightless apparition with undulating lips, too many arms, the rows and rows and rows of pointed teeth. “You’ve slaughtered my children!” Vlastomil shrieked before the ballroom shook, spun, sending Asra, Iris, and Nadia reeling, the space between Iris’s eyes pounding with vertigo. 

She clenched her eyes shut, one hand flying to the bridge of her nose, when the scent of iron flooded her nostrils; when she blinked her eyes open, she was greeted by harsh sunlight, an acid-blue sky and gleaming gold stone. The coliseum, but different. Silent. Waiting.

“Why are we here?” Nadia snarled, but the quiver in her voice was palpable; Asra’s eyes darkened, his jaw set.

“He brought us to Justice’s realm.” He muttered, just as something flickered in the distance, in the spectator’s box. They all rushed towards it, the sand absorbing their footfalls eerily; Vlastomil’s body jiggled like he could not sustain his own form, as his sightless eyes bored into them. 

“You think you can separate me from this glorious body the Devil wrought for me?” He purred, his long tongue lolling from his toothless mouth; Iris realized too late it wasn’t his tongue, but a worm that dropped into the sand and grew, grew, until it was nearly the size of a horse and twice as long, roaring indignantly. “I am not the whelp Valerius, easily swayed with pretty words and honeyed promises. And…” What could only be described as a snakelike grin spread across his saponaceous face. “I no longer ache with hunger.” 

Iris’s face contorted into a sneer as Asra, his hand falling onto her shoulder, took a deep, centering breath. “Because Lucio fed you.” He said softly. 

Nadia’s eyes flew wide, her gaze locking on Iris and Asra. “Fed him? What do you mean, fed him?” 

Iris fought back the lump in her throat by biting her lip. “Lucio… made many deals.” She whispered, turning to Nadia. “Not just with the Devil, but with his demons. When he was 18, he summoned Vlastomil to him, the worm of pestilence. That was his first deal; he was never able to fulfill it. They grew tired of waiting.” 

Nadia’s mouth fell open, shocked into silence for a moment. “You mean… they… _ate_ him?” 

“He promised Vlastomil flesh.” Asra said softly. “Flesh was the price he paid.” 

Vlastomil cackled above them. “It worked out well for you, magician. Your tormentor gone, and your pretty homunculus is back in her ill-gotten body. And now you will all be food for the worms.” 

The giant worm reared to life with an earsplitting scream as Vlastomil slithered down from the box onto the bloody sand. Asra and Nadia both took defensive stances, the sun glinting off of Nadia’s silver sword; the worm surged forward, only to crash into Asra’s ward, nearly shattering it. Nadia sliced it across its wide mouth, foul-smelling fumes and noxious slime spilling from the wound. 

Iris wrapped her hand around Asra’s waist, her palms glowing as she re-upped their ward, as Nadia stepped forward. “Is this the best you can do, Praetor?” Nadia sneered as she easily sidestepped the creature’s next strike; it howled as it slammed into the ground, split through again by her sword, this time lengthwise. Nadia’s entire gown was now drenched in slime. 

The Praetor grimaced as Nadia hacked again at the worm as it flailed; his eyes had no pupils or irises, but Iris could almost see the mists gathering over his cloudy sclera as he whimpered feebly, almost as if he was feeling what the worm was. Iris squeezed Asra’s arm, her clairvoyance firing. He wasn’t being poetic when he said the worms were his children. 

“Nadia.” She hissed softly, turning towards her. “Don’t kill the worm. Prolong its suffering.” 

Nadia turned to her, horrified, but Asra’s eyes widened in understanding. Above them, Vlastomil screeched as the worm reared up, towering over them. “I can HEAR YOU!” He bellowed, and the creature lurched forward clumsily, its horrible teeth clicking. Nadia dodged it again, drawing it away from Asra and Iris, drawing a shallow but long gash down one of its segments. 

Iris smiled cruelly as the worm bucked and Vlastomil gasped in pain. “What’s wrong?” She shouted. “Can’t stand a little scratch?” 

“If you _DARE_ hurt by baby any more…” He yowled, and it was Nadia who laughed now. 

“Your baby?” She growled. “What kind of father sends their child to fight for them?” 

“A horrible father.” Asra replied with a cold smirk; this time it was he, whips of water rolling easily from his hands, who tortured the worm, wrapping around it and flipping it onto its back; it squirmed helplessly as its wounds seeped. She could feel Asra’s heart ache in her chest, could see Nadia’s body tensing out of the corner of her eye, but Asra didn’t relent, violet eyes glittering with accusation. “A selfish father.” 

“I HAD NO CHOICE!” The worm disappeared into the ether, and Vlastomil surged towards them now; Iris reached her hands out, both her palms glowing, and saw. 

A father, a farmer, the tiny homestead surrounding by rolling golden wheat. His face was pinched and tight with hunger, his hands clenched on the shoulders of two nearly-grown sons, tow-headed and wide-eyed as the father bowed his head in defeat. The officer, the waraxe glinting on his back, the necklace of bear teeth nestled in his furs and leather glinting in the low sun as he grasped both boys by the arms and hauled them off, the father shaking as one little girl clung to his trousers…

A blazing fire in the dead of night, the youngest child sleeping not far away – the father splitting the throat of a goat, letting the blood paint the hearth. A shape coalesced in the smoke, red, squared pupils gleaming greedily as the blood seeped backwards from the wood to the fire, turning the flames dark, black. A deal struck...

The wheat of the field black, rotten, crumpled; the little girl in his arms, painful sores, some so deep and scabbed they looked black, dotting her hands, her chest, her face – she wheezed pathetically, and the father cried, cried, as slimy, putrid miasma breathed, wept, from his pores…

Vlastomil stopped just inches from Iris’s face, his mouth wide and howling. “WHAT DID YOU DO??” He screamed, slime flying from his unhinged jaw, landing on Iris’s cheek. 

“You tried to protect them from the war. Your sons.” Iris whispered, her palms still glowing. Asra’s hands were on her back, her shoulder, warming her, encouraging her. “The Devil tricked you, and the disease he imbued you with killed your daughter.” She smiled painfully. “You made another deal when she died, didn’t you? You were broken with grief. It wasn’t enough… you made another, and another, and still your sons didn’t come home…” 

“SILENCE!” Vlastomil roared, but his eyes were seeping now, something black, something vile-smelling. Iris nearly retched, but she steeled herself. 

“That father is still in there somewhere.” Iris murmured, as Nadia approached them slowly on their periphery. “That father is still mourning the loss of his children.” 

“What do you know of loss?” Vlastomil’s voice dropped, but still he sneered. “A pretty little fool with handsome lovers, influential friends, powerful magic. Your life is a life of abundance, of wonder and indulgence and hedonism.”

Iris’s smile warped into one of sadness. “It may certainly seem that way, but I watched my parents die and my childhood home burn to the ground. I lived alone, on the streets, for years. I was arrested, sent here to live with my Aunt. Then she died, too. My lover abandoned me. I died of the plague, leaving another lover behind.” She shook. “I’ve known loss. Different loss than yours, but loss all the same.” 

“I hope your children die.” Vlastomil spat, rearing back, almost afraid. “I hope they die brutally in front of you, cut down like mine were in the War of the Wheat. Only then will you know.” 

“Maybe.” Iris whispered. Nadia’s hand was on her other shoulder now, bolstering her. “But I can still weep for you now.” It wasn’t a lie; tears were already tracing their way down her cheeks. “How long have your children been lost?” 

“500 years.” The answer came from Nadia. “The War of the Wheat was five centuries ago. When the temperatures were still cooling, there was one summer so hot that it blistered the crops in all but the northern and southernmost states. Rather than providing aid to their allies, those states stockpiled their stores, and drafted their youth to defend it. It was one of the bloodiest wars of the millennium.” 

“Made much worse by the sickness that ravaged the malnourished soldiers.” Asra murmured. “They called it Battlefield Rot. It came from the wheat that survived the blight.” 

Iris’s face fell. “The Devil protected your sons from battle, but not from the disease that infected your crops.” She felt a well of horror surge through her. “The same way Lucio wasn’t protected from his own plague.” 

Vlastomil laughed sourly. “That boy was a fool, and a coward. I knew he would never give me the heart of his mother, of his mate. What he did give me was many, many victims with which to infect my new plague, much, much worse than the first. For a few decades, that was enough.” 

Iris bit her lip, the tears falling in earnest now. “Look what the Devil has done to you. You would give anything to save your children, and now you laugh at the suffering of others. Think of how many children died because of the red plague. Nearly all of Vesuvia’s children, gone. Those who are left… they’re orphans, many of them.” 

Vlastomil’s voice was small, cowed. “There was a time when this power ate me alive with sorrow. Now, I feel nothing of remorse. Only numbness.” 

Iris felt something shift at her side – Nadia, the grip of her elegant hand tightening on Iris. “Oh, Praetor.” She muttered. “I know much of numbness. It is no way to live.” 

Vlastomil’s sightless eyes drifted over the three of them, Iris’s glowing hands, her tearstained cheeks, Asra’s eyes agleam with purpose as he bolstered her magic, Nadia’s sharp features softened with sadness. “I’m afraid it is all I know now.” 

“I can cut the Devil’s chains from you.” Iris murmured soothingly. “If you let me. All that will be left is that mourning father. You will feel again. But that pain will be fresh once more. Your grief. Remorse for what you’ve done. You’ll feel it all.” 

“Then what is the point, to march willingly into pain?” Vlastomil hissed, rearing back. 

“Pain is the price of being alive.” Asra said softly. “But pain isn’t all we feel. We feel love.” 

“We feel hope.” Nadia added, her eyes darting to Iris’s, meeting her gaze only briefly. 

“We feel compassion.” Iris’s voice cracked as she swallowed down the sourness in her throat. 

“Even for a demon? For a monster?” Vlastomil’s sneer split his whole face, unhinged his slimy jaw from his slack mouth. 

Iris smiled softly. “Especially the monsters.” Her hands glowed brighter, power, sweetness welling through her. “The Devil’s chains are the only things that make us so.” 

Vlastomil said nothing, only shrinking back further from them; then, he flung his arms out in a gesture Iris didn’t understand, like some strange spider, his limbs stretched towards the sun. He looked up at Iris, his sightless eyes wide, and recognition arced through her. She grasped the hilt of her longest sword and unsheathed it with a careful, fluid movement, slicing easily from the chains that coalesced on Vlastomil’s chest. 

They shrieked past them all like bats leaving a cave as they dissipated into acrid smoke, ripping through their hair, their clothes like a hurricane. Iris lost her balance, wobbled backwards as something sharp, piercing and cool, like the too-clear air breathed from the top of the of Hermit’s mountain, surged through her lungs, her veins – Asra caught her in his steady hands, pulled her into his warm, sweet-scented embrace as the world lurched around them. 

When Iris opened her eyes, her long, lacquered lashes fluttered against the silkiness of Asra’s neck, and his lips were in her hair; she was sprawled out in his lap, the strange cool tingle receding from her, leaving the base of her spine last. Asra pulled her closer to him, his warm hands on her cheeks as he pressed his forehead against hers, kissing her lips so sweetly. 

“The Hierophant and Justice, my heart.” He whispered to her. “You’ve freed them. I can feel them growing stronger. The Arcana growing more balanced.”

“We’re not done.” Iris murmured in response, pulling away a little as she pressed her ring finger into her third eye, assuaging the thin headache that had sprung up there. “Death, Temperance, the Tower...” 

There was a pitiful moan behind her, and Iris turned in Asra’s arms. The man from her vision, the graying, lank hair, the watery, limpid brown eyes, lay crumpled in the opulent robes of the Praetor; the human flush of his tanned, freckled skin disconcerting compared to his usual deathly pallor. He groaned, piteously, clutching his head; he was shaking, wailing. 

Nadia rose at their side, sheathing her silver saber, just as Julian, Muriel, and Valerius rushed up to them, flanked by Nahara and her consort. Nadia turned to her sister, a look of knowing passing between them. “Nahara. Would you and Xanthippe be so kind to escort the good Praetor to his chambers? I believe he has abandoned his fighting spirit for the night.” 

Nahara gave a curt nod, and laid a firm but gentle hand on the sobbing man’s shoulder, hauling him up gracefully. Nadia cleared her throat. “I would love to give the Praetor the benefit of the doubt, but as I’m unversed in the treasonous tendencies of 500-year-old demons, I’d prefer not to take the chance tonight. I would ask you to keep an eye on him. Some of the dagger guard should be able to assist, should you see fit.” 

“Can’t say I’ve ever babysat a demon before.” The now-named Xanthippe chortled, their voice high and sweet. Nahara shot them an amused smirk, and then they were whisking him away, their arms wrapped around his shoulders, him slumped helplessly between them. 

Another hand fell on Iris’s shoulder; Julian dropped gracefully to his knees besides Iris and Asra, pressing a lingering kiss to her temple. “You’re white as a sheet, darling. Are you okay?” 

“I’ll be fine.” Iris muttered, but her heart was still hammering. “We have to find the rest of the Courtiers.” 

Julian was about to say something, his forehead creased with worry, but a set of the side doors to the ballroom burst open with a crash; Portia, nearly all of her curls unloosed from the bun at the crown of her head, flanked by Sabine and Nasmira, rushed into the room, haloed with shimmering, emerald magic – Nasmira’s. 

Portia’s gaze landed on Julian first, her eyes sparkling as she hiked up her sequined skirts and hurtled across the room, practically bowling him over as she threw her arms around his shoulders. “Ilyushka!” she cried. “You’re back! You’re all right!” 

Julian smoothed back a stray lock of Portia’s hair as he returned her hug. “Pashinka…” He murmured, his voice grateful, his eyes glancing to Asra’s, to Iris’s, soft with amusement. 

A halting, tentative movement drew Iris’s eye away; only a few paces away, another reunion was taking place. Face flushed darker and duskier than Iris had ever seen him, Muriel slowly approached Nasmira, whose warm beryl-green eyes shimmered as she wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into the wrinkled linen of his long-ruined dress shirt. Iris tapped Asra’s cheek with her thumb; he turned towards her gaze, and smiled, so grateful, so happy, as they watched Muriel’s hands fall softly onto Nasmira’s shoulders, drawing her closer into his embrace.

The two nuzzled closer, not saying anything; Iris noticed that she was not the only one watching them, Nadia’s eyes soft and curious over Portia’s head. Even the Queen and her Consort leaned into each other, whispering conspiratorially, Namar’s eyes glittering with warm interest while Nasrin appraised Muriel with sharp eyes, sizing him up as he lifted Nasmira up into his arms for a kiss, one that lasted only a moment – but that was enough to ignite both of them into even deeper flushes. 

Sabine cleared her throat thoughtfully. “Forgeeve me, your highness.” She said, her tone grave as she turned to Nadia, who was embracing Portia now; Iris noticed she was fiddling with the five pointed star charm around her neck, the one that Muriel must have made for her – they adorned Portia and all of the Satrinavas, looking rough and childish against their finery, against Sabine’s champagne sequins. “But zere is quite a stir in ze kitchens. The servants were fleeing from it when ze chaos started.” 

Iris hummed and quirked a brow, making to stand, though she wobbled on unsteady feet; Asra caught her, and Julian’s graceful hands raced out to steady her. “That must be where Volta is.” 

“Darling…” Julian began, his worried gaze darting across her features. Iris shook her head. 

“Vlastomil took a little out of me.” She explained, gently extracting herself from Asra’s arms. “I’ll be fine. I promise.” 

“You need your strength for the fight ahead.” A low voice murmured behind them, before careful hands, impeccably manicured and silkily soft, traced Iris’s bare shoulders. A heat, tingling at first, then diffusing through Iris’s muscles, untensing her coiled nerves, as Nasrin poured healing magic into her body. “If what Zsa-Zsa and I have seen is to come to pass, you must rest and ask for help when you are weary, little gem.” 

Iris’s head shot up, eyes wide. “You’ve seen…?” 

“Oh, yes.” Nasrin purred, letting her hands fall away. “The Universe has sent you many allies, Iris.” 

Iris blinked at her, mouth falling open a little. Then she laughed, softly, and bowed her head. “Thank you, Your Highness.” 

“No, none of that. Nasrin will do.” Nasrin’s eyes gleamed as a smirk curled on her shapely face. “After all, Namar and I are in your debt. You saved our baby from an eternity of wandering in the Arcane realms, and showed her the light earthside. An old woman can only do so much help after her children are grown. People need their chosen families after they leave the nest, as much as they need their mother.” Iris saw now the lines that etched Nasrin’s face, the wisdom she carried between her eyes, around her mouth, in the laugh lines on her cheeks. 

Nasrin looked up sidelong to Julian, then to Asra, flitting up to Muriel before settling on Portia. “I’m glad my Dia has you at her side. All of you. Thank you.” 

“That’s not necessary, Your Highness.” Portia said quickly, a flush rising on her full cheeks. Nasrin chuckled. 

“You, especially, Portia, may call me Nasrin. I have a feeling we will see much, much more of each other.” She raised a coy eyebrow before her gaze fell onto Muriel. “You as well, Muriel. I’ll not have the father of Mira’s child calling me Queen.” 

“Mama.” Nasmira was beet red, but she was smiling shyly. Muriel, however, looked as if he wanted the parquet floor to open up and swallow him whole. “How did you…?”

“An old woman knows.” Nasrin chortled. Namar, now at her side, surprised Iris by sniffing dramatically, his eyes glittering. 

“You’re glowing, Mira, my pearl.” He cried. “Can you imagine? Me, a granbaba!” 

“….Congratulations!” Julian blurted out, breaking the rest of the group’s stunned silence. He, too, had gone bright red. 

“A child conceived in chaos and impending doom.” Nafizah mused, her serene expression unchanging; Aziz chuckled at her side. “How auspicious. How joyous.” 

“Yes, we absolutely must celebrate.” Nadia said with a teasing smirk, a twinkling eye, as she embraced her sister. “Perhaps after some time has passed. I cannot imagine you are very far to term, considering you and Muriel met only five days ago.” 

Asra gave Iris and Julian little squeezes and drifted away from their little group, sidling over to Muriel, who Iris thought might actually catch aflame with how red he had turned. While Nasmira was fussed over by her present sisters and Portia, who was tactfully silent and wide-eyed, uncertain how to navigate, Asra laid a hand on Muriel’s arm. What passed between the friends was a silent exchange of emotions, Muriel’s lips trembling and his brow stormy with mortification, Asra’s eyes starry, his smile soft. 

Then, Asra flung his arms around Muriel’s neck, craning up to kiss his stubbled cheek. Muriel went wide-eyed and slack-jawed for just a moment, before placing his large hands gently on Asra’s back, returning the embrace. Iris, glowing, leaned into Julian, laying her head on his shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her, kissing her hairline; she could feel the little turn of his lips on her skin. 

Someone cleared their throat very loudly; Valerius, hovering uncertainly on the periphery of the group. “This is most wonderful news, but we should tend to the emergency on hand, should we not?” 

“Ah, Consul. I forget how pragmatic you are when you’re not doused in wine.” Nadia simpered, winking at him; Valerius blushed, and Iris thought she saw a tiny spark of something flit across his features. “Muriel, you’ve protected Asra and Ilya effortlessly. I would ask you to continue to protect my parents, my sister Zsa-Zsa and her consort, your beloved, and the friend of the court, Sabine. Valerius, you shall come with Portia and I to find Natiqa and Navra. Iris, Ilya, Asra… I shall leave you to what you do best.” Nadia let her hand linger on Iris’s shoulder; she dropped her voice low now. 

“Mama is right, dear Iris. I am lucky to have known you.” Nadia’s smile was small and sad. “Come back to me whole, my dearest friend.” Iris wrapped Nadia in a quick embrace, inhaling the deep scent of jasmine and lavender, as the taller woman trembled a little. “And give them all hell.” 

Iris merely chuckled, pecking Nadia’s cheek. She said nothing, only squeezed her friends shoulders before breaking away, taking Asra’s outstretched hand, letting Julian’s hand fall on her shoulder. Asra and Iris cast the ward as Julian threw open the heavy doors to the hallway. 

The revelers were still entranced, drunken, screaming, dancing, but it was easier to ignore them now, to drown out their inebriated entreaties as they pressed through the crowds to the kitchens – through the windowed hallways that showcased the exquisite greenhouses, the ornate sitting rooms, the stunning Corinthian columns and archways. 

Iris remembered, with a little painful surge of her pulse, how dazzled she had been when she first came to the palace. Now she knew this place like the back of her hand, thanks in part to her memories – little pieces surging up through her as they pressed forward, hand in hand. The little sitting room where Iris played with Julian and Nadia for the first time, while Asra watched, eyes aglow with undying love; the greenhouse, the one that used to be full of starstrands, where Iris saw that she and Julian had once been lovers; the library, where Iris saw Asra and Julian’s love bud; the dining room where Asra and Iris made love under the stars before he left. 

They all brought little tears to her eyes as they arrived at the kitchens, the crowd drastically thinned; she reached to brush them away, only to find Asra was quicker, kissing her eyelids shut with a knowing smile, a squeeze of her hand. Julian looked back at them, a knowing smirk splitting his handsome face as he fondly touched Iris’s cheek, swiping the other tears away. Then he and Asra pushed open the doors to the kitchen, ushering Iris in without a sound. 

Iris had never been in the palace’s kitchen’s before; she was surprised to find them as massive and daunting as the rest of the manse, decked in cool white marble veined with rose gold, cabinets bleached white, dark gray tile floors polished to a shimmer. The aura of the kitchen was suffocating and heavy, somehow both wet and dry, seeping between Iris’s teeth and making her gag, the smell of rot and waste and decay. 

The food, abandoned and piled on the long, long tables, meant to be ferried out to the guests, had somehow already molded and blackened, filling the air with the sweet stench of spore. It was dark, with only a few candles to scatter their light, but they wavered and distorted the room, some blue, some red, some silvered, stretching and confusing the angles of the tables, the low hearth, the room’s corners. 

It was silent, save for a quiet scratching, feeble and helpless, somewhere in the far distance, so soft and faint that Iris thought it in her head. Then they all heard it, the three of them tensing in unison as a tinny whine reverberated through the room. It was coming from below them. 

Iris cast out her magic, searching for the source of the sound, only to find a tiny shape huddled under the massive prep table that spanned the entire length of the enormous kitchen. She stooped carefully to her knees, and both her lovers followed suit, Asra at her side, his fingertips glowing as he leaned down against the tile, his palm on Iris’s shoulder; Julian stooped at the other side across from them, his long, lithe body contorted carefully to look under the table, his mismatched eyes darting wildly in the darkness as he cast a few red-orange orbs that trailed and swirled through the dark. 

Iris inhaled sharply as the soft sunrise light illuminated the shape before them; a tiny, tiny creature, covered in soft, cinnamon-brown fur, curled on itself as if in immeasurable pain. The curved bones of her ribs sliced out of her abdomen, crowned with painful, bloody welts. She gnawed noiselessly at a heel of ancient bread, crusted over in green mold and impossibly stale; her whining voice rose through the kitchens as her one red eye landed on the three of them. The other was stark white, blinded. 

“Have you brought me something to eat?” She whimpered, dropping her crust and lunging at them, only to fall on weak knees, her blackened paws curled pitifully into her chest. 

Iris had no response but to shake her head; the little creature’s mouth split into a fearsomely wide howl, the wild rows of sharpened teeth glistening even in the low light as her long forked tongue shot out gruesomely. 

“Where is the FOOD?!” She shrieked, scrambling past them as if they were nothing, now throwing the moldering delicacies into her wide, wide mouth, only to spit them out, her eyes watering in pain as they searched desperately around the room. “There is NOTHING, anywhere! I was promised, and I am starving, ravenous!” 

Her eyes fell on the three of them now, glistening as she drooled, and Iris’s arm darted in front of Asra, shoving him back – Julian, on the other side of the table, took a massive step back, eyeing the creature warily with something like disgust. 

“Volta.” Iris whispered. “How can you be hungry? You’re always eating.” She took a step towards the little creature, who reared back and whimpered, covering her eyes with her tiny paws. “You _just_ ate.”

“Please forgive me, sweet songbird, pretty fool!” She wailed, her wide mouth mournfully round as she threw her head back. “I never wanted this. But I was so hungry, and he… he…” 

“Who is he?” Asra asked quietly, his hand falling on Iris’s back as he stepped forward. 

The little potato-creature sniffed. “You know who. The Devil. The father of all demons. I was… I was starving… I wandered for weeks, searching for asylum… I ate the leather off my shoes, ate berries that made me sick, dug up bones in the graveyard, ate… ate the dead…” The little creature was sobbing in earnest now, her tiny body wracked. 

Iris’s clairvoyance did not betray her in this moment. She saw wheat field after wheat field blistered and ravaged by rot as a young Volta wandered, no more than fourteen, a gaggle of small children in tow. Iris watched as they crumpled one by one, and Volta left them behind, carrying the weakest ones on her back, until she was alone; her stomach roared all day as she clawed bark off of trees with her raw fingernails, ripped at the raw carcass of a dead bird with her teeth, ate sumac drupes until she threw up. It was when the child was writhing in pain, on the brink of death, that the Devil appeared. 

“He said he could feed me.” She whimpered. “He said he would feed me, but I starve, I eat and I eat and I eat and still it is never enough… oh, hunger made me so cruel…” She dropped to her little haunches and crawled towards Iris, her tiny paw reaching outwards. “I… I don’t remember what it’s like to feel satisfied…” 

Iris reached out to her, full of compassion, her palms glowing; Asra, at her side, pulled her closer, his magic surging through her. Julian watched the entire scene with watery eyes, the fingers of his left hand outstretched; even Iris was shocked when he reached forward and stroked the little creature’s silky fur, soothing her. 

“We can free you.” He murmured softly. 

“Iris can free you.” Asra said quietly. “If freedom is what you wish.” 

The tiny creature looked up at Iris with wide eyes. “He tricked me. This is never what I wanted.” She stuttered softly, as if disbelieving. “Can you…?” 

Iris nodded quietly, unsheathing her sword with a soft, sibilant sigh; the tiny chains that snaked across the little creature’s body were miniscule but dark, gleaming, hot. Still, with a concentrated nibble of her lip, Iris sliced through the chains across the little creature’s chest. 

There was a flash of light, one that staggered all three of them; when Iris had rubbed her eyes back to sight, Asra’s forehead pressed to her temple, she saw that Volta had been returned to her human form, her cinnamon colored hair falling over her naked, freckled body, her scarred eye still sightless as her gaze darted from the three of them, unabashed. The food, the food in the kitchens was now fresh and whole, and Volta shoveled it into her mouth, even as she knelt naked on the table. 

“Thank you…” She sobbed, tears streaming from her child’s eyes as she ate and ate and ate. “I… I love bread! And grapes! And sweets!” 

Iris laughed softly, reaching too for the food, pressing one of the grapes into her own mouth. “I love grapes too, little thing.” She chuckled; Volta only smiled widely, some morsels ensnared in her teeth. 

“There’s enough for all of us.” She giggled, even as she continued to eat ravenously, cured meats and cheeses and figs and sweets. Iris smiled and stood, wrapping her arm around Asra and kissing his cheek as Julian crossed the room to them, careful to give Volta a wide berth. 

“That was easy.” He murmured, kissing both Iris and Asra on their foreheads, joining them in their embrace. “Almost too easy.” 

“…You’re right.” Iris whispered, pulling away slightly. “Something’s not quite right.” She mused softly, letting her gaze fall on both her lovers, the rough charms hanging around their necks. 

The sky split, loudly, violently, bolts of carmine red lightning cracking even through the bricks of the palace, setting Iris’s eyes ablaze. There was a cackle, a cackle that froze the blood in her veins. Julian looked down in horror as his charm started to disintegrate on his chest, smoking softly; Asra touched his, slowly, slowly unraveling, only to wrench his hand away, blistering raw and red. He looked up to Iris, his eyes wide, as the smoke from their charms filled the room. 

“We don’t have much time.” He whispered; the fear in his voice, the urgent quiet, made Iris tremble, tremble. 

Iris watched in horror as Muriel’s charms around Asra and Julian’s necks slowly blackened, uncoiling fiber by fiber, smoking gently. Asra, his brow grooved and his lips parted, gently wound his hands up Iris’s arms, grasping the sweet swell of her shoulders. 

“Listen to me, Iris. My heart.” He whispered. “I don’t know what will happen when these charms fail. Ilya and I… we may not be able to help you. You may have to face the Devil and his ritual alone.” 

“This can’t be it.” Julian muttered, his eyes far-flung, deep in thought. “We don’t even know how to stop the ritual.” 

Asra sighed deeply. “I have a theory… but there’s no guarantee it will work. And it’s… not pleasant.” 

“It’s all we’ve got.” Iris said quietly. 

Asra bit his lip. “When I couldn’t get my parent’s portal to work, I used my blood. It connects me to them, and my magic to theirs. It was reckless of me – blood is a fearsome magic, and who knows what could have happened, willingly spilling it in an Arcana’s realm. But I was desperate. It got me thinking… the ritual needs something of the recipient’s. That’s you, Iris. The Fool. In the last masquerade, we were to use Lucio’s blood.” 

“But you replaced it with pomegranate juice.” Julian interjected urgently. “That was enough. Couldn’t Iris do something similar now?” 

Asra shook his head. “It only prolonged this chaos. I’m not sure it would be enough now, with the Devil’s plans. And likely it’s already been prepared, by Valdemar, or Lucio himself before...” His eyes met with Iris’s, violet delving deep into indigo. “But you, Iris. You’re not affected by the Devil’s magic anymore. Your deal with him somehow protects you, and allows you to protect others.” 

Iris gasped. “If I were able to convince him to use my blood instead…” 

“No.” Julian hissed, his voice tinged with desperation. “That’s… that’s too risky. What if Iris gets hurt? What if that binds the Devil to Iris? There has to be another way.” 

Asra’s expression was desolate as he turned to Julian, placing his hand on the taller man’s pale, freckled cheek. “There’s only one other way. Iris runs. No one stops the ritual, and we bank on it failing without her. That’s just as risky.” 

“And if I’m there, darling...” Iris laid her head on Julian’s shoulder, taking in the scent of him. “I can protect you. I can’t just abandon you. Abandon everyone.” She felt her lips tremble. "Not after all we've learned." 

Julian was forlorn. “But everything we’ve seen, everything we’ve been taught…we’re stronger together. Iris will be alone. You’ll be alone, _draga_.” He traced the slope of her cheek, slowly, reverently, as if he realized this might be the last time he touched her like this.

“I won’t.” Iris suddenly understood why, her thumb tracing the hilts of the swords at her hip. “I have your love. I’m never alone with you both in my heart.” 

Julian’s breath was ragged as he exhaled, his lips against her ear. “If this is what we must do… I trust you, Iris. But please, _draga moj,_ my darling...” He clutched her tighter to him, hands trembling. “Come back to me. To us. _Vi ste sve što vidim na svjetlu_.” 

Iris wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply; she could feel the insistent, smoky heat of the unraveling charm against her bare skin as he kissed her back, sighing against her lips. “ _Volim te_ , Iris.” He whispered. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, Ilya. _Volim te._ ” Iris buried her face in his neck, inhaling deeply; the only thing, the only thing, that could have drawn her away, was Asra’s hand, laid gently on her shoulder, his arcing magic still warm at his fingertips. 

Iris turned to him; he wrapped his arms around her waist, enveloping her in a powerful, aching kiss. “I believe in you, Iris. Follow your heart.” One strong, sturdy hand traced up her curves to the space above her breast, his palm resting against the steady pulse he found there against her sternum. “Your strong heart, your wild heart, so full of love. I can still hardly believe it.” His eyes darted to hers, shimmering with pride. 

Iris laid a hand over his and pressed her forehead to his. “It’s your heart, Asra.” She whispered. 

“No.” Asra whispered, his lips brushing against hers; the final wisps of the charm on his chest clung to each other desperately. “It was always yours, Iris. I just returned it to you.” His eyes glimmered, so beautiful, so overwhelmingly beautiful as he regarded her. “I love you, Iris. I’ve loved you for so long. No matter what happens tonight… you’re the light of my life. You always will be.” 

Iris kissed Asra one last time, long, lingering, as Julian’s hands found her hips, his forehead resting against her crown; one of Asra’s hands slipped past Iris’s ear, stroking Julian’s hair soothingly, lovingly. They said nothing; nothing more needed to be said. They only held each other as the charms disintegrated, as the bell tower pealed through the darkness, striking twelve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: OHHH SHTI ANOTHER CLIFFHANGER
> 
> Also Nasrin can totally tell immediately when someone is pregnant, fight me
> 
> See you in Judgment 2, y’all.


	10. Judgment, Part 2: Now I'm the God of the Liars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **St. Vincent - Paris is Burning**
> 
> _CW: Blood, violence, brief depictions of rape_

The change was immediate as the clock struck twelve, an icy chill settling over the three of them; Iris felt it in the marrow of her bones, in the murk of her soul, as Asra and Julian’s bodies both grew rigid against hers. Asra’s eyes, still staring into hers, grew dull, almost gray, without light or life, his lips falling slightly open as he grabbed her arms with rough, unfeeling hands, unlike anything Iris could ever remember, even during the roughest of lovemaking. 

Julian, behind her, grabbed her shoulders, and the two of them turned her towards the kitchen’s wide doors, practically marching her through them without a word. She offered no resistance, one tear trickling down her nose as she let them lead her through the marble arches of the hallways; the revelers parted, staring at them with glassy eyes, slack jaws. It was terrifying, but not as terrifying as how neither Asra nor Julian responded to her; she called their names, searched for them behind their iciness, looked for the chains, but there were none to break. 

She felt a shock of fur brush against her clothed leg as they walked past the ballroom; Vasalisa, growling soft and low, Inanna tailing her with her heckles raised. Malak circled above them, squalling in frustration. Iris’s heart swelled a little; their familiars weren’t affected by the compulsion. She reached down to pet Vasalisa, scratching her ears and cooing softly.

They mounted the stairs to Lucio’s wing, sped through the abandoned hallway, traversed the long antechamber, swept down the secret spiral staircase to the dazzling dining room, imbued with hazy reddish light that felt strange on Iris’s skin, oddly cool and slimy, and a dizzying array of distorted smells, too sweet, too rich, too perfect. 

Her gut twisted when her eyes adjusted; each seat of the groaning, opulent table was filled, aside from the 12th, the first, and, of course, hers at the head. Nadia sat rigidly in the seat of the High Priestess, her vacant expression somehow still disdainful, furious; at her side was her father, his lifeless stare sending shivers down Iris’s spine. The Queen sat in the Emperor’s seat, her piercing gaze still sharp as she surveyed the impeccable table in front of her, but she was unable to move a single muscle. At her side, shocking Iris, was Aziz. 

Iris wanted to sob when she saw the Lovers; Dara and Aster, Aster situated in Dara’s lap, both of them wearing masks of golden and purple snakes. The woman next to them struck Iris’s heart through; Morga, dressed in the same furs, the same leather armor, her face obscured by a cheetah-printed mask, though her animal eyes glowed golden underneath as she surveyed Iris curiously, knowingly. Nasmira and Muriel, their hands falling softly on each other’s on the table as they both stared straight ahead. Natiqa next, dazzling in her masquerade finery, her lapis lazuli and turquoise, her elegant, fantastical hairdo; at her side, at the foot of the table, was her partner, the afroed, kaftaned, bespectacled head of the Juris. 

Valdemar smiled widely, toothily, lounging liquidly in their seat as Julian slipped next to them wordlessly. The Quaestor caught Iris’s eye and ran a gloved finger almost lovingly down Julian’s angled jawline, licking their lips obscenely as Asra ushered her away. Next to Valdemar was Mazelinka, her masquerade dress still disheveled and her lips still stained with wine. At her side…

Iris couldn’t keep the sneer from splitting her face, from lurching in Asra’s arms as he sat her at the head of the table roughly. The Devil laughed, cackled, a smug, satisfied grin slicing across his long muzzle as his red eyes glittered in triumph. “Iris, kiddo. So glad you could finally make it.” He simpered. “I understand you traveled far and wide to attend tonight.” 

Iris said nothing even though she simmered, carefully scanning the rest of the table. Vulgora, cracking their broad knuckles, their red face even redder from drink, from anticipation; Portia, in her shimmering gold-and-sequin dress, her cat’s mask askew, her playful blue eyes dim; the rest of the Satrinava sisters, Navra, Nahara, Nazali, and Nafizah, all ramrod straight, unblinking gazes straight forward. 

Iris’s heart sank. Nearly everyone here was someone she had grown to love, someone who had extended a hand to help her, accepted her for exactly who she was. And now, they were trapped in this compulsion, powerless to stop it. They were relying on her, and she was utterly alone. 

No – Vasalisa sat at her feet, teeth bared, the warmth of her companionship radiating into Iris like a heartbeat. Malak landed on her shoulder, his chest puffed out twice his size. Inanna huffed and growled slightly, laying behind Iris’s chair, her eyes wary and alert. And – Iris felt a coolness smooth against her wrist – Faust, slinking out of Asra’s vest to join her, coiling in her lap, vibrating comfortingly. She was not alone, no. The hearts of her lovers, her friends, her family… they were with her, even if they could not reach her. 

The Devil waited for Iris to respond; she just met his bored gaze with quiet fire. With an almost disappointed sigh, the Devil spoke again, scanning the table. “Family, lovers, friends. All reunited. It is a most joyous occasion.” He rose from his chair, and as if tugged by a childish puppeteer, everyone’s necks turned, their unseeing eyes pointed to him. 

The Devil wrapped both his claws around the silver chalice in front of him, raising it aloft. “And we have much to celebrate. In the new world we bring forth together, you all shall be immensely powerful – the gods of that world, reigning at my side.” The Devil’s eyes sparkled now, looking over to Iris. 

“Your pretty fool thought she could weaken me by freeing those already under my thrall. But little did she know – I have my claws around everyone’s heart, whether they know it or not.” Vulgora, at the Devil’s side, cackled with glee, but it was Valdemar’s face that caught Iris’s eye: the sidelong glance, the quick press of their lips together. Knowing shot through Iris. They were nervous. 

“Including….” the Devil continued. “Your little lovers, Iris. You cut their chains, yet here they are. Fear is a powerful thing, isn’t it? For every chain you break, three more creep into their hearts. This life is full of endless fear – clever fear, fear that changes shape as soon as you’ve wrapped your puny mortal minds around it. But it’s all become so predictable, so boring. In this new era… chaos will reign. Chaos, terror, and you, my friends.” With a delicate bow, he placed the chalice back down on the center of the table. 

“Now, let us eat, drink, and be merry. You all need your strength for what is to come.” The words were like a spell, each guest springing to life, grasping their cups, their forks, their knives. Asra turned to Nadia as she whispered some juicy morsel of gossip in his ear as he expertly sliced through the roasted skink on his plate; then they laughed, raucously, riotously, endlessly, their eyes still unseeing – neither of them acknowledged Iris. At the end of the table, Julian leaned over the table to joke and flirt with Natiqa and the woman in the 11th seat, cracking the shells of his lobster claws expertly as he raised his eyebrows to them raffishly, as Natiqa tittered coquettishly, her partner raising a coy, arched brow; Dara and Aster fed each other, shamelessly, lewdly, with only eyes for each other. Iris’s heart dropped in her chest, even as Faust wrapped her little body around her wrist, her snake tongue flickering over Iris’s skin, as Malak preened her hair carefully. 

She wrapped her hand around the jeweled golden goblet in front of her – she knew it was filled with barberry mead, too sweet, too pungent, too amplified, before she even took a sip. The food in front of her smelled divine, coils and coils of delicate pasta dressed in spicy pink sauce, but the sight of it turned her stomach. She knew the Devil was eyeing her carefully, even as everyone else around them reveled. 

“Is it not to your liking, pretty fool?” He wondered, an arched brow raised. “Perhaps you’d like something… sweeter?” He raised a hand – the plate in front of her shimmered, like a mirage; in the pasta’s stead was a waffle, smothered in barberry preserves and topped with whipped cream, vanilla ice cream melting in slow, milky rivulets.

Iris’s eyes shot up to him. “Why are you doing this?” 

“Iris, kiddo.” The Devil purred. “What do you mean, why? Do you know how boring it is to watch mortals make the same mistakes, cry the same tears, die the same pointless deaths? I merely wish to free everyone of their monotony. Of their misery.” 

Iris said nothing, her brow furrowed, and the Devil chuckled softly. “You think us all powerful, us Arcana. We are masters of our own realms of the mind, of the aspects of the human psyche we embody. But in the rest of existence, we are confined. Restricted to these unchanging roles, for eternity. It is tiresome.” The Devil swirled the glass of ichor in his hand, black wine, but he was staring into the chalice in front of him, its blood-red surface rippling. “You and I are not so different, Iris. I saw a chance to change my fate and I took it. The power I have… I used it to gain more power, and more power. When I drink the fool Lucio’s spilled blood…” he shot a cutting glance at Vulgora, then Valdemar, lip curling in annoyance. “…I will finally be the most powerful being in the Universe.”

His eyes flitted up to hers, and in the briefest flash, Iris saw a glimmer of something, something strange, something that reminded her achingly of Lucio. She took a deep breath. 

“I want to join you.” She said softly, so softly that she wasn’t sure if he could hear her over the din of the cutlery, conversation. But everything slowed, as if the facade had been broken, the curtain lifted; the Devil stared at her with narrowed, curious eyes, leaning gently towards her, sizing her up. 

Vulgora laughed loudly as they devoured a roast turkey leg. “The pretty fool has some sense, but it’s too late now, don’t you think?” They grinned broadly, morsels clinging to their pointed teeth. Valdemar, at the other end of the table, still said nothing, waiting carefully, deathly still, for the Devil’s response. 

The Devil held up a hand to Vulgora, who stared at him stupidly. “What did you say, Iris?” 

Iris laughed once, hardly a breath. “I want to join you. At your side. Your thrall. You said once you would have me if you could. Why couldn’t you?” 

The Devil raised an eyebrow. “This is quite a change of heart, Iris. What brought this about?” He was careful, his tone even, but Iris saw the greedy glimmer in his eyes. She smirked. 

“After our deal, I traversed the realms to get the Fool’s body back.” She flexed her fingers in front of her dramatically; Faust was winding her way around her shoulders now, her tongue flitting over Malak’s feathers, her skin. “With Asra, and Ilya. I discovered the power you gave me. I honed it. I drew their power away from them, took it for myself. It was…” She laughed quietly, letting her grin grow wider, wilder. “After being held back and controlled by them for so long, it was delicious to take back.” She leaned forward now, on her elbow, clutching to her glass. “I want more. More of that.” 

The Devil laughed. “You are not the first mortal to taste power and beg for more. Why should I give it to you, Iris? After you cut down four of my demons, after you fought tooth and claw, it seems, to stop me? You do not seem to be the kind of woman to switch sides so wantonly, even if one side is clearly the winner.” 

Iris laughed darkly now, throwing back her head, leaning back in her seat and swirling her goblet in her hand. “You’re assuming there’s nothing I can do to stop this ritual.” Her eyes glinted impishly as she took a sip. “I can. I can sit back and do absolutely nothing, and it will fail, fail spectacularly.” 

The Devil’s eyes widened, and Valdemar finally turned their head, sharply, towards Iris, gaze piercing. Vulgora stood abruptly and slammed their fist on the table, rattling the frozen silverware. “You’re a liar! This wanton slut is lying!” They cried, pointing a gauntleted finger at Iris. 

“SILENCE!” The Devil roared, and Vulgora cowered, face still stormy as they sat back down quickly. He stood now, the gilded chair skittering back as he stormed across the room and took Iris’s chin in his clawed hand, wrenching her eyes to meet his. 

Iris stilled her heart, the cold fear pounding through her blood, staring straight into the slowly dilating square pupils as he searched her gaze, his snarl slowly growing. Vasalisa, at her feet, snapped and snarled, Inanna growling low at her side. Even Faust hissed viciously as Iris’s smug grin slowly crept across her cheeks. 

“You can’t control me.” Iris murmured. “The power you gave me. I can resist you, your tricks, your chains, your honeyed words. I can be your true equal.” She paused, laughed softly. “Think about it. In this new world, you would be the god of gods. Everyone here, the new Arcana, a demon of your making. Everyone under your power, no one to resist you. Where’s the fun in that? It may be amusing for a little while, but it would be the same boring world, in the end.” 

The Devil laughed coldly now. “And if I take you, little fool, what? You will be the thing I live for, my salvation, my absolution? You forget, Iris. I wrote this story. This tragedy. Lust saves no one. _Love_ is a trick of the mind, a figment of the body.” 

“But the one thing you’ve never had is a partner. Someone to truly rule at your side.” Iris’s grin was wicked now. “You’ve handed me the power to be that partner. That equal. I just need to give you the other piece.” She held out her wrist, suddenly so aware of the blood beating through her veins, the electricity shooting through her synapses, the air spinning through her lungs. “Lucio isn’t in the Fool’s body anymore. He wasn’t in the Fool’s body when your demons collected their debts, harvested his blood for this ritual. If you want to throne into this body… you need the blood of the Fool. … My blood.” 

It was Valdemar now who spoke. “This is a trap.” Their voice was high, tight, urgent. It made Iris laugh gleefully. 

“They’re jealous.” Iris whispered now. “Thousands of years at your side, and they could never have the power I have. The power you gave me, the power of the Fool’s body. You could make me a Goddess, Baphomet. And I could make you a God.” 

The Devil’s eyes flashed, calculating. “Prove your loyalty to me.” He said finally, his gaze never leaving hers. 

Iris raised her hand towards the end of the table, the twelfth seat. There was a soft, strangled cry, the slow movement of a black shape rising in the corner of Iris’s eye as she lifted her hand. She dared not look, staring defiantly, coolly, into the Devil’s eyes as she carefully counted the seconds back in her mind. At her side, Malak shrieked in panic, but he didn’t move. 

The Devil grinned. “Look, Iris.” He murmured. “Where’s the fun in not watching?” 

She steeled herself, fighting back the sour in her throat, and let her gaze slide to her hand. Through her fingers, she could see Julian flailing, his long body taut and suspended as she lifted him with her magic, opalescence ropes of magic wrapped around his throat. His skin was growing paler, paler, bluer, bluer, and time seemed to slow to a trickle, each grain fighting through the neck of the hourglass, each grain a razor in Iris’s throat as she felt every nerve fire with pain, with fear, the same pain and fear that Julian’s body felt. This was a game of chicken now: who would call it off first – her? Or…

The Devil raised a hand, and Julian slumped noiselessy back into his chair, limbs akimbo; even in his deadened state, he cough and sputtered painfully, wringing Iris’s heart. The tears stung her eyes, but she leveled her cold eyes with the Devil, a simulacrum of smirk painting her features. 

The corner of his lips turned. “He has not yet fulfilled his part of the ritual, Iris. We need him whole.” He surveyed her now, clawed fingers wound around his lips curiously. “But it is hardly a sacrifice to choke out a masochistic lover.” His eyes narrowed now. “I’ll need more.” 

Iris swallowed, perhaps visibly, perhaps not; still, she reached to her side, her hand over Asra’s heart. She tensed her fingers, gathered her magic in her fingertips, and then she plunged her hand into Asra’s chest. 

He didn’t even turn his face to her, his eyes blank as the void as he arched, his lips falling open in a silent scream; Iris thought the power that coursed out of him, his magic, his love, would eat away her hand, her arm, like acid, but her fingers closed around something, warm and pulsing and oddly hard. 

She wrenched her hand away and opened her fingers as the little void she rent closed in Asra’s chest; his heart fit easily in her palm, a million facets glinting like a ruby in starlight – inside it, blue-purple smoke was suspended, swirling with opal, swirling with a soft, orange-tinged burgundy. It was shattered, as if it had been broken in half, some of the edges jagged enough to split her skin – with each glowing pulse under her fingers, her own heart leapt in her throat, her own blood rushed through her veins. She couldn’t stop the tears now, hot and fierce as she wrapped her fingers around his heart and squeezed. It was almost like liquid, pliant under her power, resisting only slightly as she pressed into it, harder and harder and harder, until she was shaking, until she was biting her lip hard enough to taste iron, until…

The Devil grabbed her wrist, shocking her – he guided her hand back to Asra’s chest, which opened like a willing mouth, sucking his heart back in like a black hole. It sealed itself without effort, and Asra slumped back into his chair, his neck rolling back as his breath spun back to him in gasping pants. 

“You are determined to show me this loyalty.” The Devil purred. “And yet you cry for your lovers, Iris. Do you still feel for them?”

Iris heard Vasalisa growl at her feet, a warning. Iris reached down and ran her hand over her familiar’s glossy white and silver coat, her green eyes piercing straight through Iris’s soul as their gazes met. “They were loyal to me.” Iris murmured. “And they loved me.” She looked up at the Devil now, her gaze softening, real. “Would you want a woman who felt nothing for her former lovers? Who would toss them aside so callously?” She bit her lip. “There is a part of me that will always love them. The same that if I love you, a part of my heart will always be yours.” 

The Devil’s brows furrowed even deeper as he chewed now on his claw, thinking. He gazed straight into Iris’s eyes, and she met his gaze, her hands still on Vasalisa’s ears, the thumb of her other hand stroking the space between Faust’s eyes. Malak, on her shoulder, cawed softly, staring the Devil down with one beady, red eye. 

Then he snapped his fingers with one fluid motion; both Valdemar and Vulgora sprung to life. “Collect her blood. She is offering herself willingly.” The Devil’s eyes flashed. “And once she has given it, whether she is lying or not… she will be mine.” His teeth curled into a vicious, predatory snarl, and Iris felt a pair of gauntleted hands rip her out of her chair, force her arms back; the stench of Vulgora’s wine-sweet breath invaded Iris’s nostrils, making her retch. Vasalisa growled and nipped at Vulgora’s feet, but the Pontifex kicked her away, eliciting whine that churned Iris’s stomach with anger. 

“I’d hoped there would be bloodshed at this party tonight.” Vulgora whispered brutally, their lips nearly in Iris’s hair as she resisted the urge to struggle.

Valdemar approached slowly, a carving knife glinting in their leather-clad fingers. “This is a mistake.” They murmured to the Devil, who had risen besides them, the chalice in his hands. “The ritual was prepared fastidiously. Her blood will taint it.” 

The Devil sneered at them. “She is a magician; you are not. She has offered herself willingly, and you will do as you’re told.” The Devil’s free hand twisted into a fist, and Valdemar staggered forward, their red eyes glinting with frustration as they raised the knife, pointing it at Iris’s jugular. 

She couldn’t help but tremble now, turning her face away, but Valdemar sniffed, and Vulgora wrenched Iris’s left arm forward, her flowing sleeve up – in a flash, the Quaestor had grabbed it and positioned it over the chalice. With the last of their willpower, they took a deep breath and looked back at the Devil, who raised an eyebrow at them. “This will not go well.” They said quietly. “Do not do this.” 

The Devil sneered, and Valdemar winced, lurching forward; Iris saw the chains, the thousands and thousands of them that held their impossible form together, tighten painfully. “I will not tolerate any more insolence.” The Devil growled softly. 

Valdemar’s expression was neutral as their eyes met Iris’s. “As you wish, my Lord.” They slowly lowered the knife to the tender flesh of the underside of Iris’s arm, slicing lengthwise; she gasped at the sting of pain and a rivulet of blood beaded up, dripping down into the chalice. The surface of the wine seemed to shudder violently with each drop that fell, the room was so horribly still. 

After what felt like an eon of watching her blood flow, Vulgora released Iris, and she collapsed to her knees; she touched her arm, healing the gash with soft pulses of golden light, as Vasalisa and Inanna both circled her, licking her face and her arm comfortingly. Iris ruffled both of their ears, cooing softly before looking up at the Devil. She didn’t let herself feel anything. Nothing was certain, not yet. 

“Return to your seat, Iris.” The Devil purred, lips wide around a greedy smirk. “Your food is getting cold.” He turned his back to her, slinking liquidly back into the 15th chair, the chalice placed carefully, reverently, in front of him. As if on cue, the rest of the guests begin eating and celebrating again, as if nothing had happened. 

Iris sank back into her seat, her throat raw as she fought back the riot of emotions that bubbled up in her, bitter fear, heartbreaking guilt, but also a wild, gilded spiral of hope, of triumph. She had managed it, somehow – tricking the Devil into putting her blood in the chalice. Now all they had to do was drink. 

Iris picked up her fork. Even though her throat was so raw she couldn’t imagine eating, she took a bite – the waffle was delicious, heart-rendingly so, but it was also dissatisfying, as if she could eat and eat and eat but never feel sated. She drank from her barberry mead, which seemed to never empty, and had managed to choke down most of her food in silence when the Devil cleared his throat loudly. 

“It is time.” He stood imperiously, his triumphant grin wide. “To usher in the new world.” He raised the heavy chalice, as if to make a toast. “You have all played your parts spectacularly.” His eyes flitted to Iris, glittering with something horrible, something terrifying – affection. “Some, more spectacularly that others. To the new world.” He took the first sip, licking his animal lips shamelessly before passing it to his left, to Vulgora, who passed it to Portia – down the line it went, to Nafizah, where it stopped. 

She raised the chalice to her lips, her expression still lifeless and frozen as she took her drink, the first – then something strange happened. As she lowered the vessel, there was the smallest hiccup of movement, and her eyes glittered to life. Her piercing gaze shot to Iris, who suppressed a vocal gasp, a wild grin; she glanced sidelong to her sister beside her before passing the goblet along willingly. 

Nazali took it with their mannequin hands, raising it to their lips mechanically – then the same thing happened, their violet eyes sparked and flitted to Iris. They couldn’t keep the tiny smirk from snaking across their handsome face before passing the goblet to Navra. 

And down the line it went, each and every one of Iris’s friends drinking, the spell relenting; when it made it to Vulgora, after Portia’s eyes flew wide and her jaw dropped slightly, they took a long, gluttonous drink before passing the cup to the Devil. The barest corners of his mouth turned up as he lifted the goblet to Iris, toasting her, before taking a gentle sip and passing it to Mazelinka. 

Nobody dared move or speak as the chalice moved around the table, as it landed in Julian’s hands. Iris’s heart clenched as he drank, his graceful hands wrapped around the lip of the giant chalice; then, they trembled, the surface of the wine rippling visibly as he lowered the vessel from his lips, as he inhaled so, so softly and turned his head ever so slightly, his storm-gray eyes meeting Iris’s. They were warm, proud, elated, and so, so full of love – and then he looked away, an actor to his bones, letting his eyes fall lifeless as he passed the cup to the Juris. 

It wasn’t long before the goblet landed in Asra’s hands – everyone was watching the two of them with bated breath, the Devil’s eyes glinting greedily, ecstatically. Asra parted his tawny, lovely lips and drank; as soon as the wine passed over his tongue, his soulful eyes flew open, violently violet, and landed on Iris, her lips parted with hope, with fear, her eyes wide. His gaze softened, so full of pride, of devotion – he didn’t even take his gaze off of her as he handed her the cup, a smug, secret smile passing over his lips. 

Iris turned to the Devil, raising the nearly empty chalice to him. “To the new world.” She murmured, before lifting it to her lips and draining it before she lost her nerve. The wine was decadent and rich, but tinged heavily with bitterness, with an iron tang. She wiped her lips roughly with the back of her hand before tossing the silver chalice violently away; it clanged like a cymbal through the deadly-silent room, bouncing off the paneled wall, rattling on the tiled floor. 

The Devil raised his eyebrows. “Always so willful, my pet.” He smiled, wide and triumphant, haughty. “I hope some of that survives in our new life together.” He clapped his hands together once, and the entire room shook like an earthquake hit it, rattling the gilded plates and silverware, vibrating in Iris’s very bones, making her teeth chatter. 

And then it stopped, like a candle’s flame snuffed out. She gasped softly, her eyes flitting to the Devil’s; she could see the shock painted on his face. With a sneer, he clapped again, but this time, nothing happened but the sound echoing feebly through the long room. 

And then Iris couldn’t help it – she laughed. It geysered up in her as tears fell down her cheeks, as she clutched her hand over her mouth and doubled over. Her laughter was wild, wild, cruel and fierce, as she flung her head back, mouth wide, so joyous it shook her shoulders, her stomach. A gentle hand fell on her shoulder, the sound of soft chuckling joining her – Asra was laughing, too, relieved, joyful, proud, his eyes glittering under his mask. A series of loud barks from across the room joined them, sharp and jubilant – Iris could see Julian’s mouth wide out of the corner of her eyes, pounding the table with his fist. And then the whole room erupted in laughter, giggles and snorts and titters, jubilant and desperately, desperately relieved. Only Vulgora and Valdemar stayed silent; even stony-faced Morga couldn’t suppress a quiet huff of laughter as she removed her mask, sneering triumphantly at the Devil across from her.

The Devil’s anger was palpable as he rounded to Iris, livid. “What did you do, you petulant little fool?” 

Iris stifled her laughter with a snort and sat back heavily in her chair, grinning wickedly. She cupped her chin in her hand and turned her gaze to the Devil. “All this fuss, all this care, all this planning… only to be fucked up by carelessness, recklessness. In the end, you were easy to see through.” Iris reached her hand out to Asra, who took it without hesitation, his eyes aglow. “The Arcana represent parts of the human psyche, the mortal experience. Our craving for order, for tradition. Our need for introspection and reflection. The ways in which our lives require us to change, to adapt, to die and rise to life again. The power to manifest the lives we want.” 

Her eyes flitted back to the Devil’s, his sneer wide as she smiled. “And you, Baphomet. You represent our vices, the things that drag us down, that keep us from our higher purpose. But more than that, you embody our fear. The fear and pain that is the inescapable price of being alive… that’s what’s so funny. In the end, it was your fear that got the better of you.” Iris fluttered her eyelashes at him. “The exact same as Lucio’s fear. The fear of failure. The fear of being powerless. The fear of being lonely, lonely and unloved.” 

“How DARE you compare me to that FOOL?!” The Devil roared, snapping his fearsome jaws in Iris’s direction, but she just snickered. 

“You said it yourself. The Arcana are fallible. You failed to understand the human fears you exploit, fears that your brothers and sisters and siblings see and soften; this blindness made yourself vulnerable to your own fear. When we freed Aisha and Salim, you were weakened. When we unchained Valerius, Vulgora, Vlastomil, you were weakened. When Lucio was killed, you were weakened. You were afraid of the ritual failing, of being left with only the power you were born with. You were afraid of the deep loneliness that your search for power gave you, alienating you from your fellow Arcana. From the Universe that bore you into being.” 

Asra clasped his hand tighter around hers, his eyes never leaving her, enraptured, his smile knowing. She flitted her eyes to his, briefly. “All I had to do was offer you absolution from your loneliness. A partner. A real love. Something you claim not to believe in, but something you craved all the same.” She locked eyes with Julian now, all the way at the other end of the table, the grin on his face so wide she could count his gleaming, even teeth. “And you put my blood in the goblet willingly. The blood that imbued everyone here with the power to resist you. A power that you gave me, in exchange for the Fool’s body. Your undoing was your own, in the end.” 

She met the Devil’s gaze boldly now. “You’ve lost. The ritual has failed.” 

With a howl that echoed through Iris’s very soul, the Devil stretched himself to a towering, disorienting height as black and purple flames erupted from the walls, the ceiling, the floors of the dining room. He reached for Iris, his obsidian claws gleaming ominously; Asra, Nadia, and Nazali all moved in unison, Asra clutching Iris and yanking her up out of the chair, into his arms, as Nadia and Nazali placed themselves between Iris and the Devil. 

But there was no need – with nothing more than a shiver, a gorgeous carved spear split the air, cleaving the Devil’s hand like it was made of black smoke. Morga stood, her lips pulled up into a scowl; the spear vibrated and shot back to her outstretched hand. “Coward.” She hissed, the very first words Iris heard her speak earthside.

Asra, brows furrowed, hissed, “He’s an illusion!” 

The Devil scowled, his eyes falling fearsomely on Iris. “I’ll ruin the rest of your miserable life and everything that comes after, little fool. Just you wait. This isn’t over.” He pointed to Valdemar and Vulgora. “Bring her to me. Kill the rest.” He snapped his fingers, and he was gone, the dining room returned to normal. 

Vulgora cracked their knuckles, rising from their chair almost lazily. “I had hoped I’d get to crack some skulls tonight.” But they barely even had a chance to stretch their fingers in their gauntlet before Portia, with a fierce, loud cry that did not match her tiny body, decked them across the face with a heavy, gilded serving bowl and tackled them to the ground, Nahara and Nazali both springing after her.

Valdemar, at the other end of the table, was fuming, stock-still; they made to rise, but a soft click froze them, ice-cold metal pressed to their forehead. “If you hurt a hair on her head, I’ll blow your disgusting face off.” Julian growled, lips lifted in a dark sneer, the revolver glinting dully in the low candlelight. 

Valdemar tutted and rolled their eyes, gaze falling sidelong, bored, at Julian. “You really are a dull one, aren’t you, Doctor 069?” They muttered; with a powerful force of magic, Julian flew backwards, the gun ricocheting out of his hand and spinning on the polished wood floor. Valdemar cackled, only to be silenced by a whip-loud crack to the back of the head with a wooden spoon. 

“Hands off my boy, _čudovište_!” Mazelinka sneered, unleashing a barrage on Valdemar, absolutely stunned. 

Iris kissed Asra on the cheek and held firmly to his arm, focusing inward just as she heard Nadia addressing her parents. “Mama, Baba, take Mira, Zsa Zsa, Aziz, and anyone else who –”

Iris didn’t hear the rest as she and Asra folded into the void, appearing with a crack at Julian’s side just as he was summoning the revolver from across the room, flipping expertly into his outstretched fingers. 

“Darling.” Iris couldn’t help but fling her arms around him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Asra pressed his lips to Julian’s temple as his long fingers ran through Iris’s hair. 

“You did it, _draga_.” He murmured to her, eyes alight. “And you tricked the Devil himself, to boot.” 

“You were spectacular.” Asra agreed softly, his eyes low and lidded with pride and devotion. “My astonishing Iris.” 

“If you’re quite done with this touching reunion.” Valdemar hissed, gloved hand outstretched towards them, Mazelinka sputtering on her side halfway across the room as Natiqa and her partner knelt over her, glowing golden light emanating from her partner’s hands. 

Iris had barely cast out her magic to form the ward, Asra’s magic pulsing through her from the hand on her back, when a massive, double-headed battleaxe sliced through the space between them and Valdemar, mere millimeters from their fingertips, easily cleaving the tiled floor with a massive divot. Muriel wrenched his battleaxe back, stepping protectively between the three lovers and Valdemar, his defensive stance making him look even more intimidating, if that were possible. 

Valdemar cackled with glee. “You mortals are so silly.” They purred, steepling their fingers together. “Your bodies are so fascinating, but so feeble. You think you can kill me with your shiny guns, your toy weapons?” Iris’s breath sharpened in her throat as their form began to uncoil, ribbons of false flesh melting away to reveal the shuddering, quivering mass inside – too many bones, too many eyes, too many teeth and mouths, the obsidian chains holding it all together gleaming. 

Julian and Asra stared, eyes wide in horror, and Muriel tensed, battleaxe still raised, though Iris could see his knees shaking. She crawled forward, watching the form coalesce and recede, cloudlike; they were still cackling, cackling, but it was as if the laughter was coming from inside of herself, echoing through her own mind. 

“But you were human once, weren’t you?” Iris whispered. “Thousands of years ago. Do you remember?” 

The voice inside her head scoffed. “Would you want to remember the cooling of the earth, pretty homunculus? Those that survived the judgment of fire lived huddled in the dark, in the ruins of the world left behind. We fought back hellbeasts, lawless hordes, and the vicious elements. We ate the dead to survive. The children born in those times never saw the light of the sun in their short, miserable lives.” 

“You survived all of that?” Iris murmured; she felt a hand on the small of her back, gentle, inquisitive, elegant. Julian. “Only to become this?” 

“Only?” Valdemar roared. “Nothing shows you how feeble human life is like having to fight every day just to see tomorrow. When the first magician honed her magic, reached the Arcana, summoned the rains and the forests, I knew that I wanted some of that power. So I stole her cards, called to the Arcana. It was the Devil who came to me.” 

“The first magician?” Asra breathed softly at Iris’s side. “She’s just a myth.” 

The mass of Valdemar’s form contracted slightly, bowing in itself. “She was real.” 

“You knew her.” Julian whispered. 

“You loved her.” Iris gasped at the low grumble of Muriel’s voice, his battleaxe lowering. 

Valdemar’s form expanded horrifically, hot wind blasting them back; Asra wrapped his arms around Iris and blocked her from the onslaught as Julian pressed his chest to Asra’s back, shielding them both. “There was no TIME for love when we were fighting for our lives!” They screeched. “We were chasing back Death with every breath we took!” 

And then Iris saw it – a face, emerging from the putrid, swirling miasma. Pale with pointed features, a button nose and thin but soft lips, ashy brown hair. Hazel eyes, forlorn, hopeless.

With a surge of knowing, Iris bolted from her lovers arms, their voices calling desperately to her as she lunged for Valdemar’s form. She grabbed the slender neck that emerged like a hydra’s from the chaos, the face’s eyes going wide, just as she felt Asra and Julian each grab one of her wrists. Their magic flowed through her, into Valdemar, and everything, everything consumed her, burst through every screaming cell in her body as she flung her head back, her eyes wide open, her mouth lolling, as her entire body was electric in what felt like a fever that would burn her alive…

The memory was fragmented, disorienting and distorted, blurred from what could only be thousands 

of years of distance. Hissing pipes steam spinning the pounding of footsteps the ricochet of bullets

dust and grime and oppressive heat a young woman still in her teens thick dark brows giant pale eyes 

her thin lips warped in a mischievous smirk her strawberry hair braided back from her shaved scalp

she was calling something her laughing voice like bells _Real Real over here_ a massive forgotten library 

lit by the light of a crude lantern the girl’s mouth open in awe tears gleaming dully in her eyelashes her

bent over piles of books in the low light carefully ripping flyleafs out of ruined books sketching

with charcoal chunks from their banked little fire Valdemar devouring medical texts their voice

feminine and softer but immediately recognizable _if I learn what the doctors back then knew,_

_I could keep us alive_ she was so close now so close they smelled the sweat dirt musk on her intoxicating

she showed Valdemar her drawings the Fool the Magician the Hanged Man Death Judgment the World 

_I can hear them really hear them Real_ she was over them naked riding groping the tender buds in front

of her Valdemar murmuring low and lewd _Dusk Dusk_ her eyes wide with wonder the tiny flame 

flickering in her palm _the Magician showed me_ a rough sigil on the floor skulls and trinkets and books 

all of it glowing opalescent she was bleeding, clawmarks from her temple to her lip through her eye 

she stumbled into to the library dropping the ancient canned food in her arms her sketch of the Devil 

in Valdemar’s slender hands as she slept in the distance her face heavily bandaged _Real_

_what did you do?!_ the shriek split through Iris’s head like a dagger and then she was gone 

the library empty the fire out the windows flung open the pale light streaming through, 

a cool breeze like the first sigh of spring – 

Iris was wrenched out of the memory, gasping as black obsidian chains shimmered and chimed, coursing past her like wild rivers. They wrapped around Julian and Asra’s arms, Iris’s chest, Valdemar’s chaotic form roaring, spiraling – she twisted away, easily breaking the chains that encased her, and reached for her swords, only for Asra, then Julian both to shatter their own chains, Asra’s eyes glowing and smug, Julian’s smirk wide, roguish as they pulled her closer to them.

Valdemar screeched in frustration, the chains rearing back into their form. Iris searched for the face, Real’s face, but it had sunk back down in the black waves. “You didn’t covet the first magician’s power.” Iris said quietly, her voice somehow cutting through the din around her. “You were desperate to keep her alive.” 

“Silence!” Valdemar’s voice called, echoing shrilly in Iris’s head. 

“You sold your soul so she could live.” Julian said, his voice chill, low and quiet. 

“And then she left you. She was ashamed, afraid.” Asra murmured thoughtfully, empathetic. “She probably blamed herself for what you’d become.” 

“Real is still in there.” Iris murmured, low and soft, outstretching a hand to Valdemar’s shuddering, skittering form. “The Real that the first magician, that Dusk, loved… they’re still in there, somewhere.”

Valdemar roared, howled, as Iris reached forward, her hands dangerously close to touching the chains, but something caught her eye, nothing more than a pale fingertip emerging from the vibrating mass, before dipping back in. Iris, gritting her teeth, plunged her hand into the chaos, feeling the chains sear at her flesh, but her fingers closed around the other hand – it was so small, so slender in hers – and she pulled. 

Julian and Asra wrapped their hands around her waist and heaved; the chains gave, some shattering, some snapping and flailing wildly, some simply parting like a womb as a pale arm emerged, still wrapped heavily in chains. Then, a knobby shoulder, then jagged, protruding ribs, then tiny breasts, a whole torso of a pale, lightly freckled skin, their chin slumped against their chest; a blushing youth with shorn, ash-brown hair and giant, probing hazel eyes spilled out of the mass into Iris’s arms, shuddering violently. 

The chains coalesced violently in, like they were being sucked into the void, and then they faded into coiling black smoke, completely filling the dining room for a suffocating, horrible moment; then it dispersed into the ether with the crunch of metal on metal. Iris’s eyes rolled back into her head as something achingly distant and comfortingly warm flooded her, like the desperate, animal moment before orgasm, and she slumped onto Asra’s shoulder, the naked, shivering teen still nestled in her arms, whimpering softly. 

“Iris!” Julian cried, quickly cupping his hand against the back of her hand, the other falling onto her shoulder. “You’re shaking, darling...” 

She shook her head weakly as her eyelids fluttered, her vision blurring, her head feeling as if it was off and split. “I’ll be fine.” 

There was a graceful shift in the periphery of Iris’s vision, the musical clang of steel sheathed; Muriel knelt before them, gathering Valdemar, Real, in his arms, slinging them gently over his shoulder – Julian’s hands followed after helplessly, as if he was wanted to administer care, his eyes flitting desperately between Iris and the barely-breathing teen. 

It was Asra who spoke, his low, low voice soft in her ear, quiet but spiked with concern. “Iris, you’re going to pass out. We need to get you to safety.” 

“No.” Iris stood suddenly, trying her best to sidestep Muriel, but she stumbled. “Vulgora…” She moaned softly, as Muriel leaned down and caught her, too, his eyebrows furrowed with a worry as he caught Asra’s eye. 

“Don’t worry about them.” A voice as sharp as a hawk’s cry called to them. “They are incapacitated.” 

Iris could barely glance over Muriel’s arm – Morga had her spear pointed at Vulgora’s neck, just under their chin. The Courtier was pinned to the ground, Portia sitting imperiously on their broad back, a playful but smug smile flitting across her face. Nahara had bound their hands and feet together with a skillful pirate’s knot, and Nazali had their foot on their rear, frowning with disgust. 

Iris staggered over to them, Julian and Asra both springing up behind her, Asra’s hands wrapping around her waist as she knelt down in front of the snarling Courtier, staring straight into their jaundiced eyes – Morga didn’t remove her spear, even as Iris lifted Vulgora’s chin, her brows furrowing. 

“And what is your story, lost light?” Iris murmured as her vision swam; she could feel her magic ebbing from her, and still she focused her magic in her fingertips, glowing around Vulgora’s neck. 

Vulgora snapped their jaws at Iris, baring pointed teeth in a fearsome grimace, but Iris was unmoved. Morga, looming above the three lovers, tutted softly. “Even the basest of animals know when the are bested.” She sneered. 

Vulgora’s scowl lengthened, deepened, snake eyes flitting to Morga. “Shut your mouth, you foul-smelling cunt.” 

Morga flipped the spear in her hand so fast it made Iris’s head ache, smacking Vulgora violently with the smooth wood of the butt, saying nothing, only furrowing her brows in disapproval. She turned her eagle eyes to Iris, as if seeing her for the first time. “Kid, if you’re going to do something, do it quick, before I strike this insolent cur down.” 

Vulgora squealed now, sweat beading at their temples, shiny beetle mask askew from the scuffle; without hesitation, Iris grabbed their throat, what was left of her magic surging, surging through her heart, her arms, her fingers, into Vulgora, searching for the softness, the light that Iris knew was hidden away inside that shell…

At first, all they felt was the skittering of beetles, pinching, clawing, claustrophobic, panic stopping Iris’s heart, their lungs, as their entire body was covered in chittering carapaces and gleaming wings, and then they were on their back, their clothes ripped, the dirt and pine needles grinding into their skin painfully as a dark shape rutted above them, as pain unlike anything they had ever felt bloomed violently from them, tightness and blood and screaming, Iris was screaming, they were _screaming_ , but a hand suffocated them, they bit it as hard as they could, but the attacker only laughed as they pressed again into them…

And then they were consumed in a fire that burned hot and fast and forever, flaring wildly when anyone came too close, even when they drank to smother it, wine and beer and mead and rough firewater, even when they trained and trained to defend themselves, even when they became a soldier disguised as a young man. They fought and fought, severed the heads of enemies without remorse, the fire never ceasing, only growing colder and colder with each kill. They were awarded for their valor, rose through the ranks. It was discovered that they were female, but it didn’t matter. They ruthlessly struck down anyone who challenged their strength, their prowess. They never lost. 

It didn’t matter. 

A tavern, they and some of the other centurions were celebrating a victory. They ventured into an alley to relieve themselves. There was a man there – no matter how they fought, they struggled, he was so much bigger than them, so much stronger, they were drunk, he was cruel…

He left them there, beaten and battered, an arm broken and twisted painfully behind them, an eyesocket shattered. They didn’t cry, or wail, or scream – their eyes were glassy with shock, frozen with disbelief, numb to the pain. For a long time, Iris stood over them in the memory, trapped in the way Vulgora’s body trembled, the way their breath came to them in ragged, sharp gasps, lungs full of damp stale sour, the way their eyes beaded with tears that never, never dropped. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Iris saw movement – one of Vulgora’s comrades, surely, but the Iris saw the dark clawed hand extended to Vulgora’s, smelled the sulfur and the salt, and panic clutched at her heart. Vulgora’s eyes watery, pale brown eyes focused on the offered hand, glancing up once at the form looming above them – a woman’s, long flowing carmine-red hair, impossibly pale skin, but the same, the same red eyes, the black square pupils. 

Iris did the only thing she could think to do – she outstretched her hands to the fallen Vulgora too, the marks on the palms of her hands shining, sweet and opalescent, illuminating the dark alley, their bruised face. Vulgora’s eyes twisted to hers, and the memory distorted, growing both hazy and jagged. Iris met their eyes, feeling her magic ebbing quickly from her – the fog crept into the back of her mind, the black in the corners of her vision. Still, Vulgora’s face was crumpled with confused emotions – disgust, palpable and searing, but also desperation, vulnerability. 

“He’ll never control you again. He’ll never trick you again.” Iris whispered, her voice faint. “You don’t have to do this. Just take my hand.” 

Vulgora’s brows furrowed, glancing at the Devil’s female form, her snake-like grin shrinking with shock. It was then she saw, their eyes flying wide. They looked to Iris now, took a deep, sharp breath, and grabbed her hands. 

Iris and Vulgora both screamed as everything unribboned around them; Iris’s vision went black just as her head hit the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> ....have I talked about the weird xian overtones in the Arcana yet? Like...u made the apprentice Jesus, devs. We all see it. You're not being sneaky. You're not.
> 
> Anyway. See you in Judgment 3.


	11. Judgment, Part 3: Become, Become, the Endless Chain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Iron & Wine - Your Fake Name Is Good Enough for Me**
> 
> _CW: Blood and violence_

Iris gasped desperately as she sat up, leaning heavily on her elbows – she heaved, her throat raw, her lips cracked as nothing but thin strings of bile spilled from her mouth. Then, the coughing, ungraceful, wracking, shredding her throat as her senses swam back to her, nearly overwhelming her. 

She didn’t know where she was, but under her knees, her elbows, her hands, was something soft, bouncy – moss? Grass? And the smell of flowers invaded her nostrils, bachelor buttons and queen’s lace and chicory, and lilies, lilies, whitewinter lilies, flowers that didn’t grow anywhere near Vesuvia, flowers that only grew on the cliffs, the cliffs of… 

Iris’s eyes flew open, wildly, dilating as they absorbed the brightness around her – a field, a neverending field of wildflowers and lilies, the glassy sea sprawled out around her over the tumbling cliffs, the riotous, rainbow watercolor sky above her speckled with stars like salt. And in front of her, dazzling, resplendent, glowing, were the Arcana. 

Dripping in jewels, in resplendent finery, in shimmering bands of magic, they formed two long lines, flanking the long rugged path to a raised stone dais, surrounded by forgotten-looking, moss-grown henges. To Iris’s right, in Asra’s form, but even more ethereal, his skin woven with gleaming gold, his soft, curled hair floating as if he were underwater, dressed in a pure-white robe tied to his sculpted body with coiled, lavender snakes – over his shoulders was a red cloak, billowing in a breeze that Iris did not feel on her skin. He held out his hand, his wide smile dazzling, each and every galaxy reflected in his eyes as he spoke to her. 

“Kitten. You made it.” He whispered as she took his hand, her eyes wide. Another hand gripped her forearm softly, through the soft gray lace that swathed her; Julian, no, his eyes completely red and piercing, his beautiful, muscled body wrapped artfully in red silk cords, a funeral shroud wrapped around his narrow hips. He said nothing, only smiling sagely, squeezing Iris’s arm fondly as they lifted her to her feet. She was barefoot, the grasses and flowers bowing away from her, almost reverently. 

At their sides were the soft, undulating form of the High Priestess, Nadia’s amethyst hair, crowned with a silver diadem, tumbling over the shoulders of a woman clad in the colors of the sky, and Death, now a freckled, gangly youth almost as tall as the Hanged Man, her ashy brown hair short and curling, dressed simply in black, her animal black pupils widening with pride. “Child.” Death murmured softly, reaching out and touching Iris’s shoulder as the Hanged Man and the Magician gently nudged her forward, stumbling a little on her wobbly, exhausted legs. “You’re almost there, Iris.” 

“Keep going, dear.” The High Priestess murmured in Nadia’s honeyed voice, her palm smoothing over Iris’s neckline, plucking an errant hair from her dress. “All will be revealed.” 

And they urged her forward again, the hands of the Empress and Temperance falling on her now, Namar and Volta, the young redheaded one Iris saw in her vision, their animal eyes shimmering, then Nasrin and – Iris’s stomach tightened, her heart clenched with guilt – Lucio, his form ghostly, almost imperceptible, his lips barely curling into a smile, and still he touched her, his fingers on her chin, pulling her gaze to his, brow raised raffishly. 

And then she stepped forward, the Hierophant, Valerius’s richly embroidered robes, a young, dark-haired Vulgora’s peasant dress, then the Lovers, Salim and Aisha both drawing her into their strong, bare arms, holding her so long that Iris trembled. Across from them, Opal, her cerulean eyes sparkling as she took Iris’s hand and squeezed, whispering softly, sweetly, “Look at you, starchild. You’re glowing.”

Then – Selene, her bobbed blonde hair almost white in the bright, many-hued light, smiling softly as she brought Iris into her arms. “Lovely, my lovely.” She murmured softly into Iris’s ear, stroking her hair. “You have learned so much.” The Sun, as Russell, at her side, clapped his hands over Iris’s shoulders, kissing her forehead briefly. 

“Knock ‘em dead, sunshine.” He whispered in Iris’s ear before turning her to the other side of the row. The Chariot, eagle eyes glowing, Morga’s wild, matted hair flowing to her feet, placed one hand on Iris’s shoulder, saying nothing, simply holding her gaze for an unknowable amount of time. At her side was Strength, in Nasmira’s form, smiling softly as she gently grasped both of Iris’s shoulders. 

“What a fighter you are.” Strength whispered. “And a lover. Keep fighting, little pearl.” 

Muriel’s strong hand reached out and brushed against Iris’s chin, bringing his eyes to hers – she shivered a little at the Hermit’s penetrating gaze, surveying her carefully, before a soft hand reached out and touched her shoulder, making Iris jump. In Judgment’s place was a teenaged girl, incredibly short, her strawberry-blonde hair shorn up to her temples, the rest long and wild; one side of her face was grizzled with scars like clawmarks, one through a sightless eye, another through her lips. She smiled at Iris, placing her hands on both her cheeks.

“Judgment is a cup we all share, is it not, _Hase_?” She whispered fiercely, her accent heavy. “Yet you found the strength to forgive. You’re almost there.” She kissed her on the cheek, quickly, before setting her straight towards the dais. The spots next to her were empty – on the other side of the aisle, Natiqa’s form stood, smiling craftily as she clapped Iris on the back. The last to touch her was Justice, in Vlastomil’s form, the tow-haired father in simple farmer’s clothes, his fingers ghosting over her shoulder before Iris stepped up the rough stone steps to the low theatre. 

It was then Iris heard the whimpering, the wailing; two figures silhouetted in the setting sun, piercingly bright, the sky still shifting through every rainbow hue. One of the figures was squatting, her legs spread wide, her arms over her stomach – Iris saw she was incredibly pregnant, covered in sweat, her mouth wide as she cried out. At her side, her hand on her shoulder, was a teenager, a young teenager, standing on the threshold of womanhood. 

Iris recognized them both immediately, as the teen’s indigo eyes flitted to hers, shimmering with fierce anger, with untamed independence, with quiet sensitivity, her shaggy white-blonde hair damp against her temples, the nape of her neck. The pregnant woman gripped her shoulder tightly and groaned as she pushed, her skin ruddy with the pain of childbirth, but still – her long blonde hair, coiled loosely against her neck, the lines around her eyes and mouth, the set of two dimples that popped even as the woman grimaced, the same indigo eyes as the teen. Iris recognized her, too. She’d just not met her yet. 

The teen’s eyes never left Iris’s. “You’re almost there, but you’re not done.” She murmured fiercely. “One last push.” 

The World screamed now, the loudest sound, most shattering sound Iris had ever heard; she watched with confusion, with horror, with wonder, as image of her strained one last time. Just as it seemed like she could push no more, Iris felt compelled to turn, to look back at the Arcana who had brought her here. 

Every form that looked back at her was her now, her body with the funeral shroud around her hips, the silken red ropes twined between her bare breasts; her body with the bleach-white robes, her shorn hair wreathed with purple snakes; her 13-year-old self in the Tower’s place, her singed hair, her ash-covered robes billowing; her dressed entirely in black, pomegranate seeds woven through her long hair, black eyes glittering, glittering; her in tall heels and a flowing red dress with slits down and up to there, her pale hair piled on her head like horns; her dressed in the shimmering robes of sunlight, moonlight, starlight. 

Each and every form of her, past and present and future, smiled back at her, knowing, teasing, gentle, as the sky above her swirled, the colors coalescing to gray, to white, streaked through with glittering electricity of every color, it was so bright, it was all light, all light –

*******

“Ilya – _Ilya_! She’s waking!” 

Iris’s face was pressed to something smooth and warm, gauzy – a gloved hand was gripping hers, not far from her nose, absentmindedly stroking her knuckles. There was a soft scuffle, and Iris groaned as she let her eyelids flutter open; she was staring up at the beautiful, vaulted ceiling of the ballroom, speckled with dark frescoes of stars and crossed over and over with blood-red and magenta bunting. 

“Iris.” A gentle voice called to her, cool fingers ghosting over her chin. “Can you look at me, darling?” She turned her head groggily towards the voice, to be met with Julian’s mismatched eyes, fierce with focus. She followed the arc of his finger in front of her eyes, blinked indignantly when he sparked a flash of white light in front of her face. When he placed the back of his long hand on her forehead, he finally let his features soften, sighing deeply. 

“When you fall, you fall hard, it seems, _draga_.” He murmured, a little smile sneaking across his wan features. 

“We have to stop meeting like this.” Iris replied, smirking weakly, and he let out one bark of laughter as Asra leaned down and kissed her – she could see he had been crying, his eyes bloodshot and strained. 

“Don’t make me worry about you, my heart.” He admonished her softly, tucking an errant tendril of hair behind her ear. Iris touched both of his cheeks, softly, softly, pressing her forehead up to his. 

“I’m sorry.” She whispered. “I’m sorry for everything. For what I said to the Devil, for… for ripping your heart out, for hurting Ilya… for pushing myself too hard… it must have been so frightening, to be trapped like that, to watch it all unfold…” 

He shushed her softly, kissing her eyelids, the little tears that beaded there. “I was afraid, but afraid for you, my heart.” He looked up now, at Julian, who was watching them with a warm smile. “But I trusted you. We trusted you.” 

“And you did it.” Julian said, smile widening into a triumphant grin, a glint in his eye. “You bested the Devil, and unchained the Courtiers. It’s over.” Iris turned to him, her lips parted around a thought – it was now she saw the ring of people hovering around them, the Princesses and their Consorts, arm in arm, Nasrin and Namar chatting with Dara and Aster, Mazelinka and Portia, Nadia’s hand on Portia’s shoulder, Muriel and Nasmira, and - 

Iris sat up, hardly believing her eyes: Morga, on the periphery, speaking in low tones to Aisha and Salim, towering well above the both of them. But that wasn’t what Iris was staring at; flanking Morga were two more warriors from the Southern tribes – the first, a woman in her mid-forties with fading honey-blonde hair, braided across her forehead before cascading down her back in a riot of tight curls. A bow and quiver full of arrows was slung over her strong shoulders, and one sun-freckled hand rested on the arm of her companion, a tall, lean-muscled youth of about Iris’s age, willowy like their grandmother, light blonde hair coiled into a bun at the crown, two axes strapped to their back, ice-blue eyes darting to meet Iris’s gaze.

The youth’s brows furrowed, raising their chin towards her, muttering something in a language Iris did not understand. Sarangerel and Morga’s gazes snapped to her, and Iris withered a little under the warlord’s piercing yellow eyes. Yet, when all three approached behind Aisha and Salim, who rushed to them, embracing Iris fiercely, Iris saw nothing of the anger she had seen before, but a quiet, intense war of emotions that she could not unfathom; they stood back deferentially as Asra’s parents fussed over her.

“Aren’t you clever, Iris?” Aisha cooed, smoothing down her hair with her soft mother’s hands, her large eyes darting to Asra’s. “Asra told us that you tricked the Devil. Beat him at his own game.” 

“I…” Iris stammered, breaking her gaze with the Southern warriors. “It was Asra’s idea, actually.” 

Asra chuckled softly, at the same time as his father – Iris melted at the sweetness, how similar their voices were. “It was my idea to use your blood, not to seduce him into using it.” Her partner murmured, eyes glinting wickedly as his fingertips traced the slope of her cheekbone, her jaw.

Iris felt a little flushed. “When you put it like that…” 

“All’s fair in love and war, they say.” Salim said softly, his violet eyes sparkling as he placed both his hands on Iris’s cheeks. Aisha hummed softly, touching Asra’s face now. 

“We’re just glad you’re both safe now.” She murmured. “We came as soon as the door returned to us.” 

“Is that how you found us?” Iris asked after a moment, as Julian fastidiously took Iris’s pulse on her unoccupied hand – out of the corner of her eye, she could see the fine blush creeping across his cheeks. She gasped softly. “Wait, no, have you – this is Ilya.” She gripped his shoulder softly as his eyes widened. “Ilya, these are Asra’s parents, Aisha and Salim.” 

“Ah, um, I – I’d gathered… the resemblance is unmistakable.” Julian was fully crimson now, but he offered his trembling hand to Aisha, who laughed and pushed it away, wrapping him in a warm hug. 

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Ilya.” She crooned. “Asra and Iris gushed about you, but they didn’t mention how handsome you are.” She chuckled mischievously as he stammered, his gaze darting away to Asra; she snorted at the gentle flush that painted her child’s cheeks. Salim patted Julian on the back, his eyes twinkling. 

“Thank you for caring for our child.” He murmured, his voice a little misty. “To know that Asra has not one, but two devoted partners…” He trailed off, smiling brightly. “What the three of you have is very special.” 

Julian was beet red, and Asra was positively dusky with embarrassment, but Iris laughed, sitting up a little so she could drop a kiss on Julian’s cheek, then Asra’s lips. “It’s the most precious thing I’ve ever known.” She murmured, catching Asra’s eye, glowing at the adoring, simmering look he gave her, gave Julian. 

There was a hesitant noise behind them – Morga approached, her hand extended to Iris. “I would like to speak to the Oracle privately, if I may.” Her Vesuvian was sharp and precise, if stilted – Iris, with a quick look to Julian, who nodded, Asra squeezing her hand encouragingly as she stood, accepted the proffered palm. 

To her surprise, Morga placed a steady hand on her shoulder and guided her a few steps away from the throng that had gathered – she felt several pairs of eyes on them, Nadia’s penetrating garnet gaze, Muriel’s quiet wariness, the curious quirk of Portia’s brow. But she ignored them, turning to meet the warlord’s gaze. It was then that Iris saw the lines on Morga’s face, from the pale sun of the South, from the rigors of a warrior’s life – she was past middle-aged now, staring down her sunset years. 

Morga surveyed her only a moment before speaking. “I am Morga Eirsdottir, Jarl of the _Sørlig Svøpe_. The man you knew as Lucio was my son.” 

Iris swallowed, but her expression was soft. “I know. I saw.” 

Morga nodded once. “I am told you offered my son the freedom you offered his Courtiers, and the parents of your mate.” 

“I did.” Iris said, her voice small. “But he was afraid. He didn’t take it. He… he couldn’t.” 

Morga’s expression molded into something more readable, even if it was muted, strained – a look of remorse. “For the last three years, I sensed nothing of Montag. I assumed he was gone. When, two weeks ago, I sensed him again…” She glanced to her companions. “We traversed the earthside realm to find him.” 

“Sarangerel.” Iris said softly. “His mate. And is that…?” 

Morga nodded once. “Aloize. His child.” 

“You told him Sarangerel was dead.” Iris said softly, almost admonishing. Morga’s eyes snapped back to her, surveying her curiously. 

“You see much, kid.” Morga muttered. “A fine Oracle you will be.” 

Iris furrowed her brows now. “That’s the second time you’ve called me that. What do you mean?” 

Morga hummed softly. “In the southern hordes, some are chosen by the Gods to be _Seiðkana_ , those who see. They travel to the horned mountain where the Gods live and cross over to their realms. They are held by Death, swim in starlight, drink moonlight, train in the tendrils of the sun. When they return, they are fearsome warriors, and have the gift of sight, of dreams. They are able to call down the Gods. In your language, they are called Oracles.” 

Iris bit her lip, thinking. “You are one of these _Seiðkana_?” 

“I am.” Morga answered. “As is Aloize. As are you, Iris. You have come to both of us in our dreams, kid. You have traveled the realms, befriended the Gods. You have the sight of now.” 

“But I’ve never seen the future.” Iris murmured. “All I know of it is what the Arcana show me.” 

Morga’s expression softened, though her eyes stayed sharp. “The Gods do not send dreams to all as they do you, kid. Have you not dreamt of Death’s gate, the Devil’s realm, the liminal symbols of the in-between?” 

Iris’s brows furrowed, only a moment, before she leveled her gaze to Morga’s. “Lucio could have had this power, too, couldn’t he?” 

The corners of Morga’s mouth turned down, almost mournful, for a moment; then, she sighed softly. “Yes. He could have been _Seiðkana_. Even when he was planted in my womb, I knew.” 

“But you took his magic.” Iris breathed. “He couldn’t control it; he killed Kutulan. He spent his whole life disconnected from the source of his power – power you took for yourself.” 

The look on Morga’s face was pure devastation, masked in even coolness. “In women, _Seiðkana_ are welcomed, even if they are leaders. For men… it is an abomination. They are shunned; they are killed. Those who make the journey stay on the horned mountain, living lives of abnegation, protecting the hordes from afar.” 

Iris glanced to Lucio’s child, who was surveying everyone in the ballroom with the probing stare of their ice-blue eyes. “But Aloize…?” 

Morga said nothing for a long moment. “Aloize was the same as Montag. Dreamy, sensitive, full of wonder, adept at a young age. I...” Her voice broke. “Even as Aloize shunned the gender roles of the hordes. I couldn’t make the same mistake twice.” 

She paused now, eyes fluttering closed. “When we sensed him again, I though the Gods were calling me here to make it right. Either to remove the monster Montag had become from this plane, or...” 

Morga’s voice trailed off uncertainly, and it wrung Iris’s heart – she fought back the impulse to reach out and touch the warlord, even as her eyes flashed open, dark with power. “But it is clear to me now the Gods did not send me here to find Montag.” The Jarl muttered, finally. “They sent me here to find you.” 

With terrifying strength, with one silent, screaming movement, Morga planted the tip of her spear into the floor, easily splitting the wood. Iris could only stare in shock as the warlord sank to one knee in front of her, her matted blonde head bowed in reverence. 

“Long ago… when Montag was just a whelp. When I took his magic on as my own, stripped it from the source.” Her eyes were pointed down, at the tip of her spear, at Iris’s bare feet. “I thought I was doing the right thing. For him, for the horde. For my legacy. But I didn’t realize...” She trembled, and Iris wanted to die, the way the woman’s eyes glinted, dewy, ashamed. “I knew who I was dealing with. The Devil showed himself to me many times, in my journey up the horned mountain, and after. He came to me in dreams, as he does to you. But the ritual...” 

“It bound you to him.” Iris said softly, recognition blooming in her face. The chains were coalescing now, circling Morga’s shoulders, her chest, her arms. “He saw your fear, and he sunk his claws into you.” 

“The weight of him. He is heavy on my shoulders. He gave me Montag’s power, but he took some for his own.” Morga’s shoulders shook as she looked up to Iris now. “I’m afraid I am your seventh devil, Iris.” 

Iris’s hand immediately flew to her hip, the longer sword singing out of its scabbard – she stepped back, pointed the blade to at Morga’s heart, the chains that churned across the leather, the fur. “This will weaken you.” Iris murmured. “It will cut Lucio’s magic from you.” 

“I know.” The Jarl whispered fiercely, lips raising into a toothed snarl. “Do it. Do what must be done.” 

Something in Iris surged, dark, heavy, and uncertain, but still, with a careful movement, she drew the blade back, then let it sing across – 

A clamor, an echoing, the entire world a gong, reverberating through Iris like every atom that stitched her together would vibrate apart – and agony, blistering heat searing past her skin, the chains slithering around her, pulling her down, down, down – 

A screech, like an indignant bird, unlike anything Iris had ever heard, rattled her eyes open – bright, bright lights, blinding her, dazzling her, as feather-wisps of rain danced like sparks in front of her. The screech again, angry, insistent, like an animal’s howl. She was slumped in front of a row, four wide, of giant beetles – maybe? – carapaces of shiny, dull colors that glinted in the rain: navy blue, night black, steely gray. 

She stood, on wobbly legs – why was the ground so hard, so smooth yet broken, jagged, as she staggered out of the way, stumbling to her knees, hand falling on a filthy lamppost. With a guttural snarl, the strange beetles roared to life – a word, long-lost, _engine_ , bubbled up in Iris’s jumbled thoughts – and then they were gone in a plume of foul-smelling exhaust, zooming away just inches from Iris, so close she could reach out and touch, in the green light that bathed her soiled dress in violent spring.

Her eyes swimming, her head spinning, she gathered her bearings, thought it all shivered and winked, unfamiliar, at her. A sea of dark, undulating mirrors, reflecting the night and the cacophony of lights, blue and green and white and blinking yellow, warning red. Bustling bodies, cloaked in black, rushing past her, sometimes bumping into her without offering apology, without a proffered hand to help her stand – they had no faces, only shadowy voids, pointing forward, only forward. The endless, unroiling gray rivers of asphalt, of concrete, the grime, the stench, the heat, the drizzling rain that scattered and shattered the lights. 

For a moment, Iris was overwhelmed, panic spooling, hot, crowded, too much, through her nerves, shaking through her fingers, her hands, as she pressed her palms over her ears to drown out the too-much, the blare of the engines, the steady beat of footfalls and human voices, the music, playing loudly from somewhere, blaring bass and screeching woodwinds and singing like shouting – why was it all so familiar, so familiar and uncanny, why did it smell like sulfur and roses, why did it threaten to shake her apart with dread, with hopelessness, with apathy – 

A light, from the corner of her eyes, soft and opalescent and swirling. A strange block of white light, crowned in dancing, sparkling gold orbs, snaking, swirling, making Iris dizzy. In the white light, words, not the garbled gibberish of the signs around her, the spitting anger in the singing, but soft Vesuvian. “ _Rabbit Will Run_.”

Iris found herself running, fighting through the press of the black-backed throng – they crushed against her, grabbed at her shoulders, her waist, her arms, her dress, and still she fought, pushed, until she was sweating, panting, gasping – she darted between the stopped beetles, again with their blaring animal cries, the anger of human voices in their strange guttural language, but the sign was growing closer, closer, she was bathed in its warm pink and gold light, and then the crowd parted around her, funneled away from the sight in front of her. 

It was the entrance to a theatre of sorts, a glass-walled box, paintings on the walls so life-like they sent shivers up Iris’s spine. Unlike the crowded street, the theatre was empty, even if the lobby was warmly lit, lush red carpets, gold leaf, finely carved wood panels, the scent of butter and chocolate. It was the faint clicking, the muffled voices, that lead Iris to the wide polished doors, heavy under her touch as she shouldered them open. 

The room was wide, and dark, and steep – were it not for the flashing blue-white lights, Iris would have been able to see nothing. Speech, soft and lilting, but amplified, ringing through Iris’s ears as she approached the massive screen. 

It was Lucio’s face, Lucio’s voice, the low, throaty language of the South. He was smiling, his hair long and braided down his back. His arms were around Sarangerel’s waist, his forehead pressed to hers – she was pregnant, enormously so, another child – Aloize, perhaps – strapped sleeping to her back. Iris watched the scene with furrowed brows, their warmth palpable, their chemistry easy and unaffected. 

A soft sound, hardly a whimper, and Iris wheeled around – she wasn’t alone. There was Morga, in one of the elevated rows, sitting with her elbows on her knees in one of the plush red chairs. One hand covered her mouth, clutching at the skin – it looked so pale, so ashen, in this flickering light – and her eyes were wide, wide and sparkling. 

“Morga.” Iris found herself saying quietly – the Jarl’s eagle-eyes shot to Iris, clearly mortified, but she nodded once, curtly, to the chair beside her. Iris slowly climbed the stairs, the scene above them softening, bleeding, changing, changing. Lucio was younger now, cheeks still soft, still painted with ashes. He was holding his child for the first time, his lips trembling. 

“The Gods had more to show us, kid.” Morga murmured as Iris sank quietly into the chair beside her. “We were not ready.” 

“What is this?” Iris muttered, hands shaking as tears, tears of joy, overwhelmed tears, cut through the ashes on Lucio’s cheeks. 

“Montag’s life.” Morga whispered. “What it could have been.”

Montag was wearing a crown of marigolds now, Sarangerel pregnant at his side, marigolds in her hair, too, as they lounged in their thrones under the goatskin arch. His smile was softer, kinder, as a subject approached him, laid a goat at his feet, sickly and covered in sores. A swipe of his hand, gold ribbons of light – the animal healed, before their eyes, bleating softly. The scene changed, again, Montag wrestling with his father, their laughter raucous, wild, as they rolled across the rough circle in the village square, the hordesmen cheering them on as they raised their tankards. 

“You’re not in any of these.” Iris realized, horrified, turning to Morga. She saw the warlord’s hands tightened to fists on her knees, her arms shaking, shaking. A soft knowing bloomed through her, the heat rising to her face as her own eyes stung with tears. “These are your imaginings, aren’t they?” 

Morga didn’t look her in the eye, even as her pupils changed, growing even more golden, slit, her sclera black as the void. “Do you have children, kid?” Morga asked quietly. Iris shook her head, gently. 

“You’re what, 24? 25?” Morga muttered. “Still a child yourself. By the time I was your age, Montag was already running around my knees, play-fighting with the other whelps.” She turned to her now, the despondent chill in her eyes boring into Iris. “He’d nearly killed me, his time wombside. I couldn’t walk for weeks before he was born – he wracked me with pain, ripped me open, before I even birthed him. I didn’t even want him.” She shuddered softly. “But it was the only way. If I knew then what I know now… maybe things would have been different.” 

Iris saw a slight shiver run through the aging woman in front of her, and instinctually, she reached out and touched her, her fingertips grazing the furs and leather that clad Morga’s shoulder. Morga stiffened, her unblinking eyes not breaking from Iris’s, and Iris couldn’t stop the tear that slipped down her cheek. “The only way?” 

The scene above them shifted – Lucio, Montag, with Feroze and Sarangerel , all three of them intertwined in a contorted embrace, making love slowly, steadily, passionately. Morga’s eyes flitted to them, her eyes still cold and sharp, disdainful. “I was orphaned when I was barely a girl, in a raid. I didn’t have a stick to tie to my spearhead, and my horde left me to die. But I could hear the Gods, could name them; Durga came to me. She taught me to survive, how to fight, how to manifest my own power. I made the trip to the Horned Mountain just after my first menses – no one cared, no one stopped me. No one warned me. I came back _Seiðkana_ , and they never ignored me again.” 

Her eyes flashed here, flashed back to Iris’s, fearsome and terrifying – Iris saw the fire behind them, smelled the char of skin and hair, the horrible crunch of bone under hands, and for a moment, Iris thought she would shake apart, her own memories rattling through her violently, the churn of the flames, the bright against the black cloak of night, the water breaking beneath her wobbling fingers. And then it was gone, Morga closing her eyes slowly. “Those left made me their Jarl. The youngest in all the South.” 

“A target on your back.” Iris said quietly, the knowing flooding her. 

Morga nodded slowly, and the scene changed yet again – Montag, a teen, his face round and sweet with youth, making armfuls of marigolds bloom for Feroze, both of them laughing, laughing, as the crisp autumn sun cut through the fierce-bright sky. “Lutz approached me when I was just 15, nearly twice my age. He needed a mate, heirs. I had no interest in love or sex, but I wanted his bloodline, the security of his heir. Our hordes combined, and I let him give me his seed. I fell pregnant quickly.” 

“Lucio secured your power.” Iris whispered. 

“Yes… and no.” Morga was silent for a long moment, watching her son and his lover embrace now, kissing amongst the marigolds. “It wasn’t enough. I needed more. I drove the horde to war with other hordes, overtaking them, absorbing them. The Nergüi. The Sigi, Ebba’s horde. The Tshering. Finally, the Khamgalai, as tall as mountains.” She sighed heavily now. “Peaceful folk, herders. With plentiful natural resources. But they refused to yield to us. We slaughtered them, stole their land, their crops, their livestock. No one survived, an entire bloodline, centuries of history, gone. Because my people needed the food.” She paused, nails digging again into her palms. “At least, that’s what I told myself. But I knew. It was a lie, a lie to feed my ego. My thirst for power, to quiet the child inside who begged for certainty. For safety.”

She laughed now, coldly. “Even before then, I dreamt of fire, fire and chains. He was old enough then to use his magic. I tried to teach him, teach him what the Gods taught me, but they spoke to him differently. His eyes were always full of dreams, full of tears. He brought me flowers, kissed my cheeks, learned magic from the Gods, who whispered in his ears like playmates. But he had no discipline, no control. He would not learn to control his emotions.”

“How could he? He was a child.” Iris interjected, and Morga wheeled to her. 

“I did it. I had no choice. He was spoiled and soft.” She hissed, then slumped. “Rotten to the core. Because I couldn’t give him what he needed. So I gave him everything else.” 

Iris couldn’t help it – the tears were welling now, spilling down her cheeks. She tried quickly to wipe them away, but a weathered hand touched her cheek instead, startling her. 

Morga huffed softly. “I have seen what my son became. He tortured you, your lovers, your friends. He caused so much unneeded suffering, the deaths of so many people. And yet here you are, wetting your cheeks for him. Why?” 

Iris swallowed, her voice small. “Forgive me.” She murmured. “But there was a time when I wanted to kill your son. I loathed him, his outbursts, his cruelty, his abuse of his power. But once…” Iris paused. “He was a child. His heart was still a child’s. He was once goodness, goodness and light. But… he wasn’t enough for you. He couldn’t. He never would be. He was alone, alone and afraid all along.” 

Iris could feel her voice growing stronger, more certain, with each passing word, even as her lips quivered, as the tears streamed down her face. “All of us must learn to be mearcstapa, to carefully walk the border between light and fear. But if we’re never shown how… if we let the Devil trick us, to twist our fear in his claws… we can become what Lucio was. A child, so in need of a mother he tried to burn the world down to find her.” Iris met Morga’s eyes now, fierce and determined. “But you needed a mother, too. You’re an unmothered child, just like he was.” 

Iris feared that Morga would be angry, but to her shock, the corners of her mouth turned, just as the scene changed again, a feast, a feast for Lucio’s birthday as a child, sitting in Morga’s lap as she cooed at him. “You are a brave one, kid.” Morga murmured. “To speak so freely to a Southern Jarl. Perhaps you are the one this world needs. The mearcstapa, as you say.” She pressed her hand against Iris’s on her shoulder, squeezing once; then, her form shifted. 

It was Dusk – short, freckled, curvy, the sides of her head shaved, the back long and braided. Her clothes were ripped under the matted rabbit fur coat slung haplessly around her shoulders. “I’ve waited a long time to meet you, Iris.” She cooed, one corner of her mouth lifting into a wry smile – her voice was quiet, reedy, accented, just like it had been in Real’s memory. “And here you are, you’re here and you’re real. You’re radiant, _Hase_.” 

Iris took a slow, sharp inhale. “Judgment.” She whispered. “This is your realm.” 

Judgment smiled fully now, Dusk’s freckled cheeks rounding, sweet. “It is. Before the warming of the earth, the lost era… the world was covered in cities like this, cities and smoke and bodies. No nature, no reprieve.” 

“It’s horrible.” Iris muttered. “Terrifying.” 

Judgment hummed. “They were terrified too, you know. The mortals who lived before the lost era. They didn’t know anything else, but they knew they wanted more. Still, they grew and grew and grew, built their skyscrapers taller, their cities more sprawling. Rivers of asphalt, the forests shredded into endless seas of paper, plastics clogging the oceans.” Her eyes flitted to Iris. “So disconnected from the Earth that bore them that they suffocated her in their want.” 

“An unmothered child.” Iris whispered softly, her gaze falling to her hands – they were glowing softly now in the low light of the theater, as the scene shifted again – Lucio, now grown old, his hair graying and his hairline receding, surrounded by children, all bearing his ice-blue eyes. 

Judgment’s nose crinkled, teasing. “It’s like you hardly need me, _Hase_.” 

Iris’s brow furrowed. “What happened to them?” She bit her lip, taking a deep breath, seven counts in, seven counts out. “The mortals.” 

Judgment turned away from Iris, looking at the screen, Lucio’s grandchildren running, play-fighting, dancing, doing magic tricks at his feet, but her eyes were far away. “So many of them lived and died in that horrible world, never knowing the wonders the Earth saved desperately for them. Some of them saw the end, the fall. A disease that wiped out most of them. And then the slow heat, the atmosphere disintegrating finally.” 

“But some survived?” Iris’s eyes were trained on the children now, watching as they grew and grew and grew, as Montag embraced Sarangerel, Feroze at their side, their progeny having children of their own, as they grew older and older, grayer and grayer. Judgment nodded solemnly, her eyes so pale gray they were almost white, like Montag’s. Like Lucio’s. 

“Yes, we survived. We hid in the undergrounds, the malls and apartments and sewers sunk into the earth. We raided the supermarkets, the megastores, the tunnels that connected them all. We survived by the light of our smartphones and the ingenuity of our ancestors.” Judgment’s smile now was rueful, mournful. “Many of us were born into that forever-darkness. We knew nothing of fulfillment, of happiness. All we knew was survival.” 

Iris’s brows buckled now, tears stinging in her eyes. “But you had Real.” 

Judgment laughed now, waving their hand – the movie changed, Lucio’s mirror life fading away as quickly as a snuffed flame before another appeared. The two of them, Dusk and Real, wild strawberry-ginger hair and wide hazel eyes, pushing aside the sewer grate in the bathroom of the university. Slowly approaching the library. Making the banked fires, reading the time-ragged books by the flickering light. “Real was the only thing that kept me alive.” Judgment whispered. “The only reason we’ve all survived.” 

“Love.” Iris whispered. “It is powerful, even in adversity.” She watched as Dusk glanced over the fire, at the freckle-faced, shaggy-haired Real, their long lanky body bowed over a thick medical text, taking fastidious notes in the margins with a cooling chunk of charcoal. “That was what birthed the Arcana.” 

Judgment’s smile was wide when she finally turned fully to Iris – it was now that she saw the jagged scars, red, raw, dragging, that split across the other side of their face. “I loved Real.” She whispered, her voice ragged. “They were the only thing that kept me going in that hell. They wanted to be a doctor, to do good. I wanted to do good, too. I heard of that library, that we could access it through the tunnels. We fought through raiders and beasts and radiation to find the university. I brought them there. I did it for them.” 

Iris’s brows furrowed, but she stayed silent, and Judgment continued. “I found the books on the Tarot there. The Arcana. They were real, then, I think, but not the way they are now. They whispered to me, so softly I thought I was going mad. I told Real of them. I tried to reach them, tried to learn more. There were so many books, so many different approaches, so many theories. I tried them all. And then I got hurt.” She shuddered, violently, and smiled again. “It was Real who reached them, when they thought I would die.” Judgment’s tiny, freckled fingers traced over their own scars, smiling ruefully.

“Real made a deal with the Devil.” 

“Yes.” Judgment smiled sadly. “He was the strongest of us all in that time, Baphomet. But they bargained for my protection. That was what called them all down, to save me. To protect me.” Their eyes flitted to Iris. “I became _Seiðkana_ , soothsayer, oracle. The Arcana moved through me. I brought the rains, the winds. The earth started to cool. When I died, the Arcana welcomed me as their own. Gabriel took me in their arms, absorbed me into them. I am them. They are me. I am Judgment, Iris. The Dusk that settles after the Fool’s journey. The certainty that comes after a long day. The forgiveness, the absolution. The resolve to try again tomorrow, strengthened, bolstered. Knowing that there is a tomorrow to come.” 

Their hands fell to Iris’s cheeks now. “Do you understand, _Hase_? What we have called you to do.” 

The tears were hot as they streaked down Iris’s cheeks, as her hand’s trembled. “I do.” She muttered. “I feel as if I’ve known all along.” 

“Yes.” Judgment whispered, now leaning into Iris, their lips barely touching. “You have, Iris. You’ve known since before you were born, every atom that’s sewn into your body. You were born to free the world from Baphomet’s unending need. You were born to protect it. You were born for so, so much.” Their eyes sparkled, light, radiant, sure. “You were born to change everything, _Hase_. But you won’t be alone. We will all be behind you. Your lovers, your family, your friends. Everyone who came before you. The Universe. You are the one, Iris. You will never be alone.” 

It was Iris who shattered the distance, pressing her lips softly into Dusk’s, upturned, smiling. It was as if the entire realm scattered around her, drifting away like snow, like a ribbon unspooling gently, quietly. 

The must of marigolds filled Iris’s nostrils before she even open her eyes. The taiga, the marigolds rioting in gold, in orange, in blood-red and rust. Iris stood, eyes leveling to the scene in front of her: Morga, her head bowed, ashamed, as Lucio towered over her, the horrible gold of his arm glinting, every muscle taut and singing under his stately robes, red and gold and snow-white. She was bleeding, bleeding from her eyes, the cuts on her face, the wounds in her trunk, her arms. And yet Lucio was unmoved, his bloodied eyes cold and unfeeling.

“This is what you deserve.” He growled softly, taking two steps towards Morga, who stood firm, even as she trembled. 

“Show me, Montag.” She muttered, holding her arms out at her sides, a signal of acquiescence, of submission. “Show me how much it hurts.” 

Lucio’s dark sneer flashed, and like light, he moved, so fast Iris hardly saw him – blood splattered across the marigolds, painting them in pain. 

“Do you know what it’s like to be unwanted, ma?” He purred, as Morga keened. 

“Yes, Montag.” She warbled, and there was another flash – another spray of blood, the marigolds red, red. “I know, believe me, I know.”

“Do you, ma?” Lucio murmured. “My whole life, I tried to please you. I searched for you. Your love. Your approval.” 

“I know!” She wailed, her voice higher, more pained than Iris had ever heard it. “The greatest kindness I ever gave you was birthing you.” She muttered. “And nothing else. I was not the mother you needed.” 

The shade of Lucio turned to her, ice-blue eyes flashing. “Too little, too late.” He sneered, and another wound bloomed across Morga’s chest, like a flower. 

Iris fought the tears that burned against her eyes, to no use. They overflowed over her cheeks, just as her voice rose to her, soft and slow and certain. 

_“Last I saw mother, she rose from her chair...”_

Lucio’s expression barely softened, only the rounded stiff of his shoulders relenting, as Iris’s voice grew louder, stronger, certain.

_“When they caught me, I’d just finished combing my hair / ‘cuz a rabbit will run, and the colt does alongside the mare...”_

Lucio’s arms lowered, his brows cocked – Morga collapsed to her knees, her breath shaky and grateful in her lungs as she gasped. Still, Iris continued to sing. 

_“We’ve all known the Earth while we’ve carried the throne / We dove under the rivers and under our clothes / and I still have a prayer, as sure as my settling bones...”_

Lucio watched with one nostril lifted as his mother writhed on the ground, coughing, retching piteously, but his hands fell limply to his sides. “The only thing you brought into the world was suffering.” He spat.

“I know you suffered.” Morga’s voice was nothing more than a whimper. “I know you made others suffer. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” 

_“Judgment is just like a cup that we share / I’ll jump over the wall and I’ll wait for you there… / Well past the weeds and our visions of things to come...”_

Lucio’s hand’s were shaking now – Morga looked up to him, her eyes glittering but fierce, fierce with grief, a grief long-trapped in the dark coil of her heart; Iris saw it so clearly now, the fluttering of her white-blonde eyelashes, the tears that traced the dark tattoos on on her sunken cheeks, the same sharpness that framed Lucio’s eyes, softening now, almost imperceptibly. “Why, ma? Why didn’t you love me?” 

Iris’s own lips trembled, the tears flowing freely now, as she continued to sing. _“Last I saw mother, she smelled like a rose / When they caught me, the captain, he opened my nose / ‘cuz a rabbit will run and the wind takes the bird where it blows...”_

“I didn’t know how, kid.” Morga’s voice was so soft, she sounded so, so tired. “I didn’t know how to show you. All I knew was to protect you… and I couldn’t even do that.” She took a shuddering breath, looked upwards at him, tried to stop the tears that kept falling. “I’m sorry, Montag. You deserved better.” 

_“We’ve all turned to grace at the end of the day / and we’ve all armed the children we thought we betrayed / and I still have a prayer but too few occasions to pray...”_

Iris was shocked when Lucio dropped to his knees in front of Morga, reached his trembling hands out to his mother, grasping her shoulders gently. She tensed, shaking, but their eyes met, the same icy, metallic blue, warming, warming, with a sadness no words could ever touch. Still, Morga held out her arms to him, and he curled into her, his entire face contorted now with sobs. 

Iris approached them slowly, still singing softly, as Lucio shrank in Morga’s arms, his eyes softening, widening, his limbs unblooming, until he was that same wide-eyed, tow-headed child that Iris carried in the moon-shaped pool, snot running down his nose, sniffling, wailing in his mother’s arms. 

Morga shushed the child softly, just Iris dropped down behind her, arms wrapped around Morga’s shoulders. “He’ll never forgive you.” Iris whispered, so quietly, so sweetly. “He can’t. He’s gone. He had to pay the price for everything he did.” Her fingers tightened against Morga’s strong arms. “But you can forgive yourself. Forgive yourself, Morga. You will carry this pain forever, but you can let go of the darkness that eats you alive inside.” Iris smiled softly. “That way… if you meet again… at Death’s gate, in the next life… you can try again. You can always try again.” 

Morga didn’t look at Iris, didn’t acknowledge what she said, but still, Iris grinned, wide and wild, when a quiet, croaking voice rose from the woman as she rocked the boy in her arms, soothed him until his sobbing subsided. 

_“Last I saw mother, she blew me a kiss  
When they caught me, the cuffs cut the blood from my wrists  
‘cuz the rabbit will run and the pig has to lay in its piss_

_We’ve all give half to the hand in our face_  
_We’ve all taken a stone from the holiest place_  
_And I still have a prayer; I’ve furthered the world, in my way...”_

Then – they were back in the ballroom, Iris’s arms still around Morga. The chains glimmered weakly now as they coalesced around her, her slumped shoulders, her shaking arms. Iris stepped back, drew her sword again, and let the blade kiss across the metal. 

The chains shrieked as they unraveled from Morga in a hurricane of force, so strong that Iris took a step back – then it hit her, all that magic, Lucio’s magic, the Chariot’s power, swimming so bright and wild through her veins she thought she would burst. 

And then it was gone, the chains gone, Morga blinking down at her hands, almost disbelieving. But then she turned to Iris, a smile unlike anything Iris had ever seen – wry, playful, knowing. “Damn, kid. You did it.” She laughed, and Iris’s heart flooded, flooded with joy as she laughed, too, grasping Morga’s shoulder as they curled into one another. 

Only when they were gasping, their laughter just subsiding, did Iris realize they weren’t alone – a warm hand, resting gently on the small of her back, another wrapped around her waist, lips pressed to her shoulder. Asra and Julian, both beaming with pride, their magic warm and sweet as it bolstered her. Behind Morga, both their hands on her shoulders, Sarangerel, her lips turned in a gentle smile, and Aloize, their eyes warm and serene, knowing, seeing, wordlessly thanking Iris.

Hovering on the periphery were their friends, their family, watching, witnessing, eyes wide with wonder – Aisha and Salim, softly intertwined; Mazelinka, beaming at them with her gap-toothed smile; Muriel, expression soft, as Nasmira held his hand; Nasrin and Namar, and all the other Satrinavas that crowned them, glowing, glowing; Valerius, confused but awed, at Nadia’s shoulder; Portia, grinning so, so wide as Nadia’s hand slide from her waist, approaching Iris and Morga tentatively. 

“Jarl Morga Eirsdottir.” She began, her voice soft. “It is unfortunate that we finally meet under these circumstances. I am Countess Nadia Satrinava, Lucio’s ex-wife.” She swallowed thickly as Morga’s sharp eyes turned to her, then softened. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

Morga stood, Sarangerel and Aloize with her, as she faced Nadia, her expression unreadable – then, she placed both her hands on Nadia’s shoulders, squeezed gently. It was a strange scene – Nadia, in her destroyed finery, Morga in her roughskin clothing, the two of them almost embracing. “I would offer you those same condolences.” Morga muttered, her voice barely a rumble. “Even when estranged, it is not easy to lose a mate.” 

Nadia said nothing, the corners of her mouth turning down just slightly. “I cannot say I was terribly fond of him in the end, but I will mourn the loss of him just the same.” Morga nodded softly, and Nadia’s uncomfortable gaze flitted to her companions. “I want to extend an invitation to you and your escorts, Jarl Morga.” Nadia said with a little smile. “You are family, after all. You are welcome to stay here for as long as you like, should you choose.” 

Morga raised an eyebrow now. “A bold declaration, Countess Nadia. Do you know my escorts are the mate of your late husband and their child?” Nadia’s eyes flew wide, and Morga laughed, once, a soft, amused huff. “Fear not. Neither has a claim to your seat, nor do they have any interest in it.” 

Nadia still seemed flabbergasted, but her features softened as Portia threaded her hand through Nadia’s, giving her an encouraging smile, her blue eyes starry, her curls falling untamed and wild out of her bun. “I must admit that news pleases me.” Nadia confessed. “I have grown very fond of Vesuvia and its people. It would break my heart to step down now, to leave now; this place has become my home.” 

Jarl Morga’s eyes sparked. “Then a fine ruler you shall be for it, Countess Nadia.” 

Nadia smiled softly. “Please. Nadia will do. There is no need for formalities between family.” 

Nasrin floated to her other side, her bejeweled hand falling on her daughter’s shoulder. “It seems this night is full of unexpected revelations and events.” Her golden eyes flashed knowingly. “But if it pleases you, Jarl Morga, I think we should all continue this conversation tomorrow. My daughter and her friends are no doubt exhausted.” 

“I agree, Mama.” Nadia hummed. “How Iris, Asra, and Ilya are still standing, I’m not sure.” She turned her gaze to the little group at their feet, but Portia gasped, and Nadia’s eyes flew wide with shock. 

The lovers were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: *exhales deeply*
> 
> Just two chapters left, loves. See you in the World.


	12. The World: I Am Whole and I Walk the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Jhené Aiko – Jukai // Florence + the Machine - Mother**
> 
> _CW: violence, brief images of noncon/ambicon_

The water was chilly in the January air, and Iris felt the little wind cut through the mostly translucent gauze of her gray gown, now billowing in front of her like a cloud in the fountain of Capricorn. In one hand, her right, was Julian’s left, his long, musician’s fingers intertwined tightly with hers, the skin between the seams soft and supple; in her left was Asra’s, amber-gold and tawny against milky beige tinged with rosy pink. She could feel his rings against the webs of her fingers, clinking against the rings on her betrothal finger, the moonstone and obsidian band from Julian, the sliver of lapis, the trophy Lucio took that was always meant for her. Across from her, they held each other’s hands, clutching to each other as tightly as they were clinging to her, their little circle complete. They met each other’s eyes softly, certainly, before both turned their burning gazes to her. 

“My heart.” Asra whispered. “You’re sure about this?” 

Iris’s eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks as she closed her eyes, bit her lip. She focused on the cool slip of the water against her knees, her calves, her ankles, her toes, the tingling certainty of her magic drawing up from the soles of her feet to her twining nerves, her steady muscles, her warm, jumping veins. “In my vision, each Arcana appeared to me, even the Devil.” She began. “Each of them touched me, embraced me, flooded me with their power. But the Fool, at the end, told me I wasn’t done.” Her eyes flashed open, her startling indigo-blue irises ringed with pale light. “Then I saw Judgment’s realm; she spoke to me. I freed Morga, freed the Chariot from the Devil’s claws. Morga telling me of the _Seiðkana_ wasn’t a coincidence. The Arcana, every trial they’ve sent me, sent us… this is what they were preparing us for.”

“To face the Devil.” Julian murmured. “The Sun said he wouldn’t go down without a fight of his own.” 

“If we let him go tonight… he’ll just gather his strength. Find another way to dissolve the liminal spaces.” Iris said quietly, though her voice vibrated with power, with surety. “He’s weak, licking his wounds. Now is the time to strike.” She squeezed Asra’s hand. “There are very few things in this life that I’m more sure of. That this is what the Universe is asking us to do.” 

“Then there’s no way in hell we’re letting you go alone.” Asra said, his soulful eyes soft, his smirk impish.

“We’ll follow wherever you lead.” Julian’s smile was wide, raffish, his eyes glinting. 

Iris squeezed both of their hands, steeling herself for what was to come next. “I… we don’t know what the Devil has in store for us, the tricks of his realm, his power. We may get separated. We may hurt each other.” She gasped softly, her voice suddenly thin, wan. “If anything happens – please know. I love you. I love you both so much. Ilya, my darling. Asra, my heart.” 

“Oh, Iris.” Asra murmured, bringing their clasping hands to his lips. “I know. I love you, too. But together, we can do this. I would hate to be anything that got in your way right now.” He was practically glowing with pride as he regarded her. “My fierce heart. My sweet, wild heart.” 

Julian hummed softly – he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss on Iris’s temple. “ _Volim te, draga. Jako te volim._ ” He whispered in to her ear, and Iris understood, remembered, as she leaned into his warmth, their cheeks pressed to each other. 

Then Asra and Julian turned to each other and kissed wordlessly, passionately; Iris heard Asra murmur, barely audible even to her, a breathless “I love you,” which Julian returned softly, accompanied by another sweet kiss on the lips before they pulled away. Then, there was nothing left to say. It was time. 

Iris squeezed both her lovers hands. “Just like before, Ilya.” She said, voice low and silky, like a chant. “Focus on the Devil, the feeling of being near him, his chains around your wrists. Then focus that feeling inward.” The water at their feet began to glow, threaded through with streaks of light, dusky purple, like violets, shimmering opal, a bright red tinged with orange.

“Wait!” A high, sweet, lilting soprano with incredible, authoritative volume split through the silence of the early morning as five figures burst through the foliage of the maze. Portia, her curls completely wild now, the bun almost forgotten, the shimmering gold of her dress stark against the solemn silver of the night. Nadia, her hand in Portia’s, her mark glowing, reflecting in her dark eyelashes, her soft but piercing eyes, the wild smile that painted her beautiful features as she flushed, panting from running. 

Behind them both, towering and taciturn, was Muriel, his heavy brow set, the battleaxe that Iris summoned what felt like an age ago still strapped to his back, his masquerade suit long wrinkled and rumpled. But his eyes, normally so secretive and afraid, were warm but fierce, protective, purposeful. At his side – Nasmira, radiant, glowing, smiling softly. And in front of them all – Morga, her yellow eyes flashing, the sclera inky black, even as her thin lips turned in the tiniest amused smirk. 

It was Portia who descended on them, her mouth slipping into a teasing smirk. “Ilya Nikolyavitch Devorak, where on _earth_ are you slipping off to now without me?” 

Julian’s eyes flew wide, and the magic ebbed from their little circle as he turned towards his sister’s voice. “Pashinka.” He said softly. “Where we’re going… it’s too dangerous.” 

Portia scoffed, her hands falling haughtily on her hips. “I babysat a spoiled tyrant and wrestled a warlord and _won_ , Ilyushka. And that’s just tonight.” She huffed. “I’m coming with you.” 

“You don’t even know where we’re going!” Julian began, but Nadia held up a hand to quiet him. 

“You’re going to chase the Devil, no?” She said with a small smirk. “He made it quite clear he was not done. He does not seem like the type to abandon his ambitions.” 

“You’ll need backup.” Muriel added simply, his eyes fiery with quiet resolve. 

“And you can always rely on my spear, Oracle.” Morga’s eyes flashed, smirk widening.

Iris bit her lip a moment, her eyes flitting to Julian’s, to Asra’s. Julian was apprehensive, his expressive brows furrowed with concern, but Asra’s features were warm, a smile spreading across his face, his dimples emerging as he broke their circle, his hand rising to Julian’s face, amber palm resting warmly against pale cheek.

“All will be well, honey.” Asra said softly, for just the two of them to hear. “The more love we can face the Devil with, the stronger we’ll be.” 

“Asra’s right.” Iris smiled. “We’re all stronger together, right, darling?” 

Julian laughed softly, his tense shoulders relaxing, a faint smile curling on his lips. “Of course. Of course, _draga moj. Med._ ” 

With his foxlike smirk, Asra took Julian’s hand again, kissing the soft knuckles. Iris turned to their friends and smiled, gesturing with her chin. “Come on in. The water’s fine.” 

Nasmira, with a soft smile, craned her neck up to Muriel, who, with a furtive glance at the lovers, a deep, dusky flush rising on his cheeks, stooped to kiss her. “I’ll stay.” She explained. “And watch over your bodies. I’m sure the rest of our sisters will help watch, too. Nahara. Nazali.” 

“Thank you, Mira.” Nadia cooed, tucking an errant tendril behind the ear of her much shorter sister.

“Of course, dear sister. Please be safe.” Nasmira opened her arms to Nadia, and they embraced, before Nadia climbed gracefully into the fountain, her hand outstretched to Portia, who clambered in beside her, Muriel offering a hand to Morga for assistance, who playfully knocked it away before hopping into the water with hardly a splash. 

They took post behind the lovers, their arms stretched long as they took each other’s hands, forming a protective, concentric circle around Asra, Julian, and Iris. The water was almost electric now, with all of their magic pulsing through the fountain. Iris closed her eyes, and focused on each and every feeling drifting into her now – Nadia’s regal, adaptable wisdom; Portia, vibrant, vivacious, reliable; Muriel, gruff but tender, strong but sensitive. Morga, fierce, disciplined, determined, single-minded. Julian, gentle, charismatic, devastatingly empathetic, intelligent; Asra, intense, soulful, playful, enigmatic. Love, so much love, and loyalty. 

Then, with a shuddering gasp, it flooded Iris – the oppressive oiliness of the Devil’s aura, the sickening gleam of his pointed teeth, the chill of his claws as they wrapped around her throat – then the well of the fountain bloomed bright, thick, glistening red, like the earth’s aorta, the blood tinging the sparkling waters as it swirled around their feet, opaque and iron-smelling and violent. Iris suppressed a gag as her vision lurched, as her brain spun behind her eyes with vertigo, and Asra’s voice was in her ear, Julian’s fingers clinging to hers hard enough to bruise. 

Iris’s skin prickled as the void closed in on them, tearing at every fiber of her being, threatening to turn her inside out – the sounds that filled her ears, her mind, were unearthly, shattering in their pain, their misery, her nose filled with sulfur, with iron, with rot and decay and decadence. Gates rushed past her vision, wrought-iron and oily and miasmic black, putrid red, over and over and over again until she was dizzy with them, until she thought this was her purgatory, but still she clutched to her lover’s hands, she could sense them, feel their warmth even as her lungs needled with frost, with her fear – 

And then something clutched her, ripped her hands from theirs as her back hit the hard-packed earth, knocking the air out of her; her vision crackled with white light, then went black, black, black as oblivion kissed her to sleep.

*******

Birdsong woke her, the light streaming through the verdant green canopy dappling the backs of her eyelids, like the reticulations on the surface of a stream. She let her eyelids drift open, slowly, gently, as  
the susurrus of the forest roared to life in her ears, the chittering of the insects in the dirt below her bare back, the creak of ancient limbs, wood and foliage and secret, the silent conversations of the rabbits, the foxes, the deer, the lichenflowers. 

Her head sang quietly with pain, the back, by her neck, as if she had fallen. Her limbs were heavy, leaden, the softness of her body aching as she arched her palms, ran her hands through the moss under her fingertips, springy and fragrant and lush. She was naked, she could feel the grit, the soft, the rustle against her tender skin as she sat up, clutching at her neck, wincing as the world righted itself. 

The forest was ancient, dense in every direction, the trees regal with enormous height and width, but the light danced through the branches and the boughs and the fallen, time-hollowed trunks, glittering on the fingertips of the ferns, in the dewy petals of wildflowers, on the sinuous curves of vines. 

Nearby, the laughter of running water sweetened the silence in the sea of trees, and stones, painted crudely with faces, their eyes every color of the rainbow, pupils blown wide, brows furrowed, laugh lines etched, lips quivering with tears, seemed to cut a narrow path through the underbrush. 

Even though her body ached, her muscles protested, she stood, letting the shifting faces guide her, memorizing their expressions, wondering who had left these little totems to the mortal experience. The forest called to her like a friend, an old friend, and she answered, picking her way, lightfooted and sure, through the green-gold light.

The brook announced itself soon, the giggling churning into chuckling as the water threw back the sunlight, running and tumbling through the little banks, dotted with chokeberry and cardinal flower, cut deep by the forever of time. She knelt next to the water and splashed her face, glancing at her reflection: the short, shorn hair, the wide eyes the color of irises dipped in dew, the rosy lips, parted with wonder. Her hands, in front of her reflection, were supple, bare of any decoration, save for two rings – a tiny band of little moons on her betrothal finger, and a band of silver set with lapis lazuli nestled above it. 

She felt her brows knit together as a ripple of confusion spread through her, from her heart to her toes. Before she could even form the words for how she was feeling, something silky and warm and wet brushed against her elbow; she didn’t startle, only turning towards the comforting touch. A wolf, her fur snowy white, mottled with light brown and warm gray, her eyes the same color as the forest, nuzzled against her like a lapdog, and she reached to scratch their ears fondly, a happiness, a wholeness, creeping warm like home through her. “Hey, girl.” She cooed, surprised by the sound of her own voice, low and sweet and throaty. “You found me.” 

The wolf nudged her again, let out a little whine before trotting away a few steps, then throwing her piercing green gaze back to her. She understood, instinctively, standing to follow the wolf, who lead her further down the path dotted with the laughing, crying, angry, blissful stones. 

They crept together through the massive forest, serenaded by birdsong and the croaking music of frogs, the quiet percussion of insects. The trees were still but alive, as if breathing slowly, steadily, and with each footfall, she felt a certainty, a serenity, as if the dirt was whispering soothingly to her. 

In a tree above them, there was a soft hoot – she turned her eyes high, high above, so high the sun was ringed in rainbows, dazzling her briefly. Then she saw – a snowy owl with piercing red eyes, feathers completely white and tinged slightly with peach, lilac. At her side was a sleek and beautiful calico cat, her coat mottled with patches of orange tabby fur, a little black bow-shaped spot by its neck, light blue eyes turned towards her, sparkling mischievously. 

She paused, as did the wolf at her side; it huffed softly, as if laughing, and the owl hooted in return, taking wing as the cat darted gracefully down the branches of the tree. It landed on her feet at the wolf’s side, arcing adorably against both of their legs, purring loudly. She knelt down and scratched under the cat’s chin, cooing softly as the calico coiled, flipping over herself onto her back, exposing her silky belly. She scratched at the creature’s breastbone, earning her even louder purrs, before the wolf nudged her again. She straightened, and they continued on, the owl circling sharp-eyed above them, her guiding cries urging them deeper into the sea of trees. 

They came upon a clearing thick with blackberry and blackcurrant brambles, the air fragrant and sweet with them; she reached to pluck the ripe fruit from the bushes, but there was a grumble, a rustling – a black bear on its hind legs, hulking and imposing, reared above her, its teeth bared. Still, she did not move, or startle, or scream. She only placed one hand over her heart, extending the other to the massive bear. He roared, and the cat and the wolf both arched, hissed and growled, but she stood firm, humming softly as she offered her open palm. The bear stared, its deep green eyes, flecked with gold, blinking uncertainly; then it lowered itself to all four legs, bowing its head, pressing it into her palm. 

With another quiet hum, she smoothed down the oily, coarse hair of his crown, his neck. “Don’t be scared.” She whispered softly. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.” The bear nudged her softly, nuzzling against her chest, and she embraced him, pressing her face into his strong, musky neck. When she let go of him, he followed, lumbering somehow quietly through the brush, bringing up the rear of their motley band as they continued on, the cat and the wolf circling curiously, amicably, through his muscular legs. 

She found herself singing softly, a song that she had no recollection of, no memory of ever hearing, and yet the words came to her as easy as breathing: _“I’m softly walking on air / halfway to heaven from here / sunlight unfolds in my hair / Oooo, I’m walking on air...”_

She touched the bark of the trees, tracing her fingertips along it as she waltzed freely across the forest floor, dipping into a soft pirouette. _“If living is seeing, I’m holding my breath / in wonder, I wonder what happens next?”_ She let her hips circle, her ribs shift, her shoulders dip, as the animals that flanked her seemed to sway around her, responding to her voice. _“A new world? A new day to see?”_

Then the path opened slightly, the dirt packed with thousands of years of heavy footfalls – in the center of the path was a crow and a fox, the fox’s body coiled around the crow’s, dark beak resting on tawny muzzle. At the sound of her slipping, dancing through the foliage, the gentle rustle, both of their heads shot up; at the sight of their eyes, the crow’s a soft, stormy gray, the fox’s a blooming warm violet, her heart ached unknowably. They huddled together, apprehensive, even as she approached gently, quietly, the other animals edging forward carefully behind her. 

“Oh, loves.” She whispered. “It’s okay. I’m here now.” Where those words came from, she didn’t know, but the fox and the crow seemed to relax, the tension releasing from their little muscles as she approached – the crow hopped forward on sure, spindly legs, accepting soft strokes of her finger on his little beak. The fox looked up at her with his impish, mysterious eyes before butting his head against her hand like a cat; she stroked his forehead, cooing softly, as crow hopped onto her shoulder, preening her wild hair. She heard the cry of the owl above her, joined now by a hawk’s piercing shriek, a warning, but she held these precious little animals close, feeling the rapid pounding of their hearts against her bare skin. 

All three of them nuzzled together, the crow chattering contentedly, the fox curling around her legs, her knees as she knelt. She never wanted to leave this moment with them – they felt like home, like safety, like acceptance. She pressed a kiss into crow’s the feathers, then the fox’s chin, the corners of his wild mouth, as the wolf wrapped around her back, protecting her. The cat sniffed curiously at the crow, grooming it like a littermate, while the bear greeted the fox like an old friend, letting out a little lowing cry that the fox met with a soft mew, their wet-black noses touching familiarly.

With the fox at her side, the crow on her shoulder, she stood. The path had widened, it seemed, to an overgrown little field, still dappled with the shade of the tall, tall trees overhead, dotted all over with wildflowers, thistle and bluebell and witch hazel. At the end of the field was a long, low stone table that barely came up to her thighs. 

Behind the center of the table, a girl knelt, her overgrown hair, short but chaotic, tickled her narrow neck, her hunger-pointed features fierce as she turned to them. She saw their eyes were the same, the startling, unearthly indigo, wide and dark-lashed, her brows stark against her pale face. She stood slowly, surely; it was then she realized that a deer was at her side, warm clay brown dotted with stark white, her eyes and muzzle void-black, her long, shivering legs folded under her sleek body. 

She approached, the crow still on her shoulder, the cat and the fox still circling her legs, the wolf and the bear flanking her, the owl and the hawk circling overhead. The teen smiled softly, saying nothing as she gestured to the long table in front of them. It was then she saw the stones at each of the settings, 22 of them, arranged around the table like a puzzle: tiger’s eye, lapis lazuli, agate, amber, jasper, turquoise. 

She bit her lip as she approached, the crow’s head twitching and the fox nudging his nose against her calves as the teen smirked. “Are you ready to chose?” She asked softly – her voice was exactly her own, her arms and hands lengthening gracefully, awkwardly. 

She furrowed her brows – the little clearing was alive with the voices of insects and wildlife, blue dragonflies darting around them with the bees, the spiders making their crafty webs between the longest of the swaying flowers. She carefully surveyed each of the gemstones as the fox sniffed curiously, as the hare leaned forward and shifted in her arms; at her back, wolf chuffed, the bear groaned, the calico mewed at the fox’s side. 

“Do I have to choose?” She asked finally, as her gaze flitted over each seat, the subtle moonstone, the mottled bloodstone, the rough lodestone. The teen said nothing, only raising her arched eyebrows, letting her arms fall at her side. She met her gaze; the teen laughed softly, the corners of her mouth curling coyly. 

She traced her gaze over the stones one last time, looking for the one that spoke to her, but none let their voice rise over the others. A knowing arced through her, wild and certain, and she raised one hand, palm open, glowing softly with jewel-bright light as something warm and right and lovely surged through her. The stones on the table shimmered, shook, and moved; they merged, floated peacefully into one another, adventurine merging with topaz merging with peridot merging with opal until all that was left was something different entirely, a glowing rainbow of colors, light reflecting light reflecting light. She took this in her free hand; it was warm and right in her palm. 

The other, younger her smiled. “Are you certain?” She murmured. “This is the most difficult path.” 

She took a deep breath, letting the soft air of the forest, the thrum of life, the voices of her friends, her loves, circle through her, bolster her, center her. “Maybe.” Iris agreed. “But it’s what’s called me all this time. The path that’s not a path, the one between the borders of all things.” She looked back at the spirits that circled her. “What earned me these friends, these loves.” She turned back, met the eyes of her reflection, hardly a teen, barely a woman, and yet she glowed with a happiness, a knowledge, that she could not yet comprehend.

“Very good, Iris.” She whispered, her eyes glowing; every color of the rainbow flitted through her irises, her God’s eyes, as the stone in her hands vibrated, then surged into her naked chest. She gasped, the crow cawing from her shoulder, the owl hooting, the hawk shrieking, as she held both her hands over her heart, power and light and warm and wisdom all surging through her at once, braiding through her veins, her nerves, the liminal fibers that held her soul together. When she looked up at the Arcana, the first and most infinite, the crow at one side, the fox at the other, she smiled as her form unloosed, her edges shimmering like gray smoke. The doe at her side stood on sure legs, her eyes turning towards hers, dark and righteous.

“You’re ready.” The little God said with a smirk – her voice was different, powerful now, loud and layered and everything. “You’re ready to forge the new world.” 

She snapped her fingers, and the doe startled, bounding over the table, straight towards Iris. She didn’t flinch, didn’t gasp, as the creature split through her like a ghost, as all the animals that surrounded her bled into her, whispered into her, rushed into her like life as she stumbled backwards –

*******

Iris fell, heavily, into satin bedsheets, the breath knocked out of her as her back arched against the soft mattress. She groaned in pain as dust and ash rose above her in a cloud, as she threaded her hands through her hair. 

She startled, sitting up quickly, as her fingers trailed through her long, long hair, much longer than her waist, her hips – despite its length, it was untangled, flowing out from her like water, floating on the bed around her. She gathered it with her magic, quickly braiding the slippery hair into a long loop that she wrapped around her head, her forehead, securing it with pinpricks of rainbow light. 

The room she had landed in was immediately recognizable, the red satin sheets cool like spilled blood, the gleaming mahogany, the windows flung open to the sulfurous sky, the scorched, salted earth. She crawled to the end of the bed, towards the window, to peer outside – somehow, she had moved from the World’s forest to the Devil’s realm. But something grasped at her bare ankle, sticking demurely out from the feathered edge of her embroidered, shimmering gray lace dress. 

The hand that traced the rise and dip of her calf was warm, strong, ringed; when Iris turned around, her eyes wide and accusatory, it was Asra’s image that greeted her, his body naked, his eyes lidded with lust. “Stay, Iris.” He murmured, his voice quietly authoritative. “Don’t you want to watch?” His smile widened wickedly, his teeth too pointed, too sharp; it was then that Iris saw the squared pupils breaking through lovely violet irises. 

She wrenched her ankle from his grip and cast a ward, her magic flashing blindingly white, then cascading into every color of the rainbow as the shield formed around her. The form of Asra blinked, blinded, for a moment, before his devilish smile returned. “I’ve always liked you feisty, my heart.” 

“You’re not him.” She hissed, scrambling away from his form, even as he lunged forward on all fours. “This is wrong.” 

“Are you sure?” Another voice simpered at her side; she wheeled to see Julian’s form lounging nude on the bed beside her, his wrists bound above his head to one of the mahogany bedposts. “Do you know how long you were gone? How time can warp even the strongest of hearts?” 

“They would never.” She growled, reaching for the swords around her hip, her fingers closing around the hilt, but the image of Julian laughed, heartless and cruel. 

“I told you I would make your life miserable, kiddo. What if I bound them to my service forever? Made them relive their worst moments, over and over and over again, for all eternity? Or...” 

Asra lurched, his eyes turning human, achingly human, as he reared up over Julian’s prone body, grasping the underside of his thighs, pushing them up and apart. Iris’s heart stopped as Julian’s eyes widened with terror, as the Devil’s voice whispered directly in her ear now, no, directly into her mind, her heart: “What if I made them re-enact their worst moments with each other?” A low, pained cry broke through the deadly silence of the bedroom as Asra, horrified, pushed himself into Julian, who wailed in pain, tears dripping down his cheeks. 

Iris sneered, and held out a hand to the scene in front of her – her palms glowed, and her magic flowed from her, every color of the rainbow, and the scene in front of her was illuminated for what it was – illusions, feeble and formless. She snarled, and twisted her palm, and the magic crumbled in front of her, melting into pools of dust. 

“Try harder.” She growled, springing up from the bed and flinging the door open. A hallway, sharp arches, polished obsidian, chandeliers of jagged wrought-iron and dark crystal, blood-red candles with purple flames. Door after painted black door, the hallway stretching endlessly. Another illusion. 

Iris furrowed her brows in concentration as the Devil’s voice crept into her again. “What are you without your little friends, your little lovers, Iris? Can you find them? Do you really think you can save them from me, again and again and again?” She ignored him; even as carmine-red fog furled from under the doors, as the walls oozed unctuous, pungent black slime, she let her magic unspool from her, glittering opalescent and shifting through each hue of the rainbow, stark and chaotic against the stolid darkness. 

There – her eyes shot open. Not one of the endless, countless doors, ominous shrieks and gasps and screams emanating from them now, but one of the onyx-bricked walls. Iris held her hand up to it, and it shimmered; she stepped through it easily, as if it was nothing but light.

Another hallway, but this one had dirty, hard-packed floors that crunched under Iris’s soles, rough stone walls supported by crumbling buttresses; between each was a wrought-iron elevator, an exact replica of the lift down to the dungeons, flooded from below with ominous red light, with rolling fog. 

A little sob shook through the silence, so forlorn and distant that Iris thought it was a trick – then her intuition fired, and she took off running, the dirt and loose shale cutting painfully into her bare feet. A long, lithe figure, swathed in red and black, lay crumpled in the dust at the foot of one of the elevators, shaking violently. Their long elegant hands were wrapped around their ears, fingers gripping their auburn hair, as glowing obsidian chains wrapped around their wrists, their arms, creeping up to their neck, around their waist. 

“Ilya!” Iris shouted, dropping to her knees at his side, her hands falling onto his back. She knew, immediately, it was him, his gentleness, his intellect, his charisma, radiating from him in his warm, carnelian-orange aura, something the Devil could never understand, never replicate. The elevator in front of him echoed with screams, undulating with writhing forms, pale bodies, wide mouths, wide eyes, their scleras painted the telltale, sickly crimson of the plague. Iris could hear them screaming Julian’s name, cursing him for failing them, wailing in unknowable pain, pain that radiated through Iris like she was drowning in a violent sea, suffocating in the surging surf.

At the sound of his name falling from Iris’s lips, Julian jerked his head up to her, hands trembling, pupils dilated with fear. “Iris?” He whispered, disbelieving. “H-how can you love me… after all that I’ve done?” 

“Oh, darling.” She murmured softly, her eyes lidded with love. “The Devil must be scrambling, to use this same trick. You are not what you’ve done; you can always come back.” She leaned down and kissed him, certainty flooding her; he relaxed in her arms, a moan of relief crossing his lips as the illusion receded from both of them, as the chains shattered sibilantly and scattered into the ether. “You can always come back to me.” 

He wrapped his strong arms around her shoulders and pulled her closer, protective, his nose in her long hair, her lips on his neck. “ _Draga_ , your hair...” he murmured softly. “How…?” 

“I don’t know.” She whispered, gripping to him tightly – it was now she realized that she, too, was trembling. The fabric under her fingers surprised her – it was leather, but finely embroidered, stiff but warm plates of red and black sewn together skillfully to create light, breathable armor, worn over a heavy silken robe of black, the hem and sleeves embroidered with images of crows and thorns and starstrands, foxgloves, iridescent white irises. It all seemed to glow and undulate with Julian’s aura. “When we were traveling here, I think I was ripped from everyone else. I found myself in the World’s forest, where I met the Fool.” She touched her hair now, thoughtfully. “I think… I think they made me Oracle there. My magic is different. My clairvoyance is clearer, my intuition stronger.” 

“You feel different.” Julian agreed quietly, his breath warm against her scalp. “But the same. Amplified, somehow.” 

Iris nodded, pressing her forehead into the strong column of his neck. “I feel real. I feel whole.” 

Julian opened his mouth to say something, his mismatched eyes sparkling and full of love, but there was a terrible rumble as the ceiling above them shook, dirt and rocks tumbling dangerously. Julian wrenched Iris up to her feet and out of the way as a huge rock fell where they had been coiled together. 

Iris outstretched a hand to the ceiling, and the deluge slowed; with the other, she cast out her magic, searching for the way out. It coalesced around one of the elevators, nearly a hundred yards down; she grabbed Julian’s hand and they raced down the hallway, cramming into the little lift, their chests pressed together as the gate slammed closed. To Iris’s surprise, it lurched and lifted them upwards, splicing through the dirt above them and rising through the sulfurous crust of the realm. 

Iris grunted and blinked back the baking sun, red, angry, scorching-hot, as it split through their vision, Julian shielding his eyes and wrapping his arm protectively around Iris’s waist as the elevator came to a screeching halt. All around them were twisted vines, blackened by the sun, covered in thorns the size of Julian’s long fingers, dripping with venomous, pungent ichor. The brambles seemed to swirl around them, forming into walls just like…

“The hedge maze.” Julian muttered as the gates clanged open; with his hand steepled on her back, the bare scoop of skin between her shoulderblades, they stepped out into the unrelenting sun. “Any chance it’s the same as the palace’s?” 

“I doubt it.” Iris mumbled, casting out the rainbows of her magic carefully – something in the air gave her pause, an ominous droning, pounding that made her clasp her hand over her heart as it throbbed. Then she started – the sound was her own heartbeat; at least, it mirrored it, each thump ringing through the air like a gong the size of the sky. 

“Ilya.” She whispered urgently, reaching for his hand. “I think…” Then a low, anguished wail rose from the brambles, setting Iris alight – Julian’s eyes widened beside her, his gaze turning wildly to hers. They would have recognized that voice anywhere. Asra. 

Her magic coalesced at the fork in front of them; she urged Julian forward, their fingers clasped together as she led him through the twists and turns of the maze, the sky cracking above them, red and bile yellow and shriek blue lightning splitting through with each beat of her heart, the thorns seeming to grow and creep closer to them with each step, but still they ran, wordlessly, breathlessly, through the maze. 

Just as Iris thought she would have to draw her sword to cut away the encroaching vines, they parted, revealing a long-dry, cracked fountain, the statue that crowned it of the Devil, his stony eyes following them even as they paused. The magnificent willow tree that wrapped its lovely, curtained arms around the fountain in their realm was twisted and gnarled, the branches tangled and long-dead, withered brown but still thick as tears.

Another wail, this time of her name, “Iris, _Iris_ , oh, _**Iris**_...” and she was certain, grasping Julian’s hand and rushing around the fountain. Just like at the palace, the brambles grew around the trunk of the tree, secluding the back from the fountain, but Iris loosed a volley of bright fire and violent light that burst through the dry branches, crackling them like tinder. She and Julian ducked through the space as the vines screeched and shook violently, the thorns growing and reaching like claws as they passed through. 

Asra was lying on the roots of the willow, covered in oily ash and strewn with charred bones, a scapula, a femur, delicately splintered ribs, a pelvis, both ilium fractured. He curled in on himself and plaintively traced the carving of Iris’s name in the willow’s withered trunk with one hand, the skull without the mandible wrapped carefully in his other arm. Around his arms, his legs, his hips, were the same chains, glistening black and oily, so searing hot that Iris could feel the warmth on her face as she rushed to him, kneeling beside him as he wept. 

“My heart.” She whispered as she touched his cheeks with both hands, drawing his gaze to hers. “It’s not real, Asra, my love. I’m here, I’m real, I’m not going anywhere. Don’t let this pain drown you again.” For a moment, his soulful eyes were unseeing, and Iris feared he was gone, but then Julian placed his hand on his back, and his pupils slowly widened as he shook his head softly, shaking himself from the dream. The chains fell away with a sound as sweet as chimes as he drew Iris to him for a desperate, thankful kiss. 

When he pulled away, he pressed his forehead to Iris’s, his hands resting on her cheeks. “He almost had me there.” He murmured against her lips, so close that Iris could feel his feathery eyelashes fluttering closed. “His illusions are much weaker than they were.” 

“They are. You broke the chains on your own.” Iris said softly, pushing a springy curl away from Asra’s eyes. “So was Ilya.” 

“Ilya.” Asra murmured, turning back to him, leaning in for a brief kiss. “You’re safe.” Julian wrapped one arm around Asra’s waist, his other hand threading through his hair as he pulled him into a warm embrace. Iris laid her head on Asra’s shoulder, one arm around Asra’s waist, the other clutching Julian’s shoulder, melting into their arms, their scents. Iris saw now that Asra’s clothes had changed, too, a long, long vest of purple and blue tied with a swirling, sky-blue obi belt. His arms were stacked with golden bangles and armbands, and around his shoulders was a billowing cape of deep, swirling indigo crowned with snowy fox fur. 

“Have we found anyone else?” She asked quietly after a few moments. “Morga? Portia? Muriel? Nadi?” 

Julian shook his head dolefully, but Asra’s eyes lit up. “Muriel was with me. The last thing I remember is him...” His gaze shot over his shoulder, eyes darting confusedly around the path that led to the alcove. “He heard something.” 

Iris sent her magic out, searching for Muriel’s aura, but she felt nothing, chilling her heart. “Are you sure, Asra?” She whispered, heart skittering – but then she found him, at the very edge of her consciousness, and something else – an achingly familiar aura.

Iris furrowed her brows, her magic returning to her. “He’s in the forest – Vasalisa is with him.” 

Julian stood and held out his hands to Iris and Asra, pulling them gently to their feet. “Vasalisa? But she didn’t come through the realms with us.”

Asra smiled thoughtfully. “Familiars are known to traverse entire worlds to reunite with their partners. It wouldn’t surprise if Vasalisa could cross realms, too.” His soulful gaze fell on Iris. “She is the embodiment of your magic, after all, Iris.”

A little heat rose to Iris’s face, but she nodded sharply. “She found me in the World’s forest. Hopefully she’s been able to keep Muriel out of too much trouble.” 

They took off sprinting, Iris and Asra’s magic cast out ahead of them, guiding them through the thorns as Julian fought the creeping branches back, slicing through the spiraling vines with the saber still at his side. Iris could feel the piercing heat of the sulfurous sun crackling on her skin, and she cast a shadowing spell, bright, sparkling clouds coalescing above them, protecting them, at least, from the blistering rays. 

The Devil’s realm whipped around them as they ran, and in the back of Iris’s mind, she could hear the whimpering, shrieking voices of the lost, those still bound to the Devil. She could practically feel the chains shifting under her feet, the bones cracking, skin sizzling, but she clutched more tightly to Asra’s hand and steeled herself; there was nothing she could do for them now. 

The brambles thinned, then disappeared; an expanse of inhospitable dust, cracked clay separated them from an unending forest of twisted black trees like thick strokes of ink. From the clay grew a swaying sea of gray irises, petals blackened, stems ashy and charred and crumbling. In the middle of the field, two figures were bent, one swathed in pale purple, the other, blinding bright orange, her riotous curls flowing from her like a flame. 

“Pasha!” Julian yelled, sheathing his sword, and took a step towards her, stepping directly on one of the irises – an unearthly wail rose up as the flower was crushed under his weight. He froze, his eyes wide with horror; it was Asra who pulled him back from the precipice, a gentle hand on his shoulder, a squeeze of reassurance.

“It’s just an illusion, Ilya.” He stood on his toes and leaned into Ilya, nearly pressing his lips to his ear. “Here – we’ll go together.” He took Julian’s hand in his, Iris’s fingers still wound through his, and together they threaded carefully through the flowers. The screams grew louder, shriller, more tortured with each step, but Iris held firm, focusing on the feeling of Asra’s strong hand threaded between her fingers, of the figures in front of them, steadily growing closer. 

Portia was trembling, sobbing uncontrollably, her hands clenched to Nadia’s shoulders; she was dressed in a dazzling pale orange dress, long flowing sleeves and a paper bag neckline. Over her waist was a darker orange waistcoat and a deep purple sash embroidered with gold stars. A sheathed scimitar was tied to her hips with a striped tasseled scarf. She was trying to rouse Nadia, who was dressed completely in lilac, wrapped in a flowing veil over her cascading tyrian hair, her neck and ears dripping in glittering jewels, a gemstone-studded shamshir across her hips; she sat rigidly and stared, glass-eyed, at the unending expanse of irises. 

Portia turned her watery eyes to the lovers as they approached, her lips quivering with tears. “I can’t wake her up!” She cried, her voice strained and cracking. “She saw the flowers and just…” 

Iris smiled softly, letting go of Asra’s hand and placing it on Portia’s cheek. “Portia.” She murmured. “Beautiful, sweet, willful Portia. You so want to be the thing that saves Nadia, but we can’t save anyone, heal anyone, but ourselves. We can only stay by our loved one’s sides while they heal themselves.” Portia blinked up at Iris, confused for a moment, before her features softened. 

“You love her so much.” Iris whispered. “Show her that love. That’s what she needs, more than anything. Someone to love her just for who she is.” Portia turned, wide-eyed, to Nadia, and leaned forward; then she hesitated, quivering. She turned back, her gaze darting between the lovers and it was then Iris saw; she was frightened. 

Julian hummed softly, a knowing, empathetic smile warming his sharp features. “You can’t love without being vulnerable, Pashinka.” He murmured softly. “It’s okay to be afraid.” 

She flushed, but the corners of her smile turned up as Asra wound his hand around Julian’s waist, as Iris rested her head on Asra’s shoulder. Portia knelt next to Nadia, and whispered something Iris couldn’t hear before kissing her softly on the lips. 

As if waking from a spell, Nadia blinked back her shock, her piercing garnet eyes focusing before turning to Portia, eyes wide. Portia let out a squeal of happiness and threw her arms around Nadia, who caught her uncertainly but happily as they tumbled backwards into the irises, silent now. 

Iris laughed, too, watching them embrace with a pleasant warmth surging through her heart. “Come on.” She urged them, holding her hands out to both of them, pulling them to their feet, their hands clasped together. “Let’s find Muriel.” 

Nadia’s brows furrowed as she surveyed the lovers. “Iris… your hair, your…” she gestured to Iris’s dress. She glanced down at herself – the translucent lace, the embroidered flowers and suns and moons, threw back the light in rainbows, undulating softly through each hue. The marks on her hands were glowing, the same light-splitting magic emanating from her palms, rolling through every rainbow hue. 

“This is what the Arcana prepared me for.” Iris murmured, flexing her fingers, feeling the quiet, urgent rush of her magic, like wholeness, like openness, like the trembling, satisfying, perfect ache of having a lover inside her. “What everything these last two weeks – no, everything since I was planted in my mother’s womb, and before – has led up to.” Her eyes flashed, and Nadia’s eyes widened in awe as Portia gasped audibly. Iris could see her own eyes glow in the ring of Nadia’s dark iris – every color of the rainbow flashing around her widening pupil, gathering, gathering like a storm. “What the Universe has gifted me.” 

Asra’s hand fell on Iris’s shoulder just as a low cry echoed in Iris’s ear, drawing her gaze towards the towering, ominous forest. Holding out her hands to her lovers, to her friends, she focused on the sound, on the lonely, melancholy, shy, sweet ache of Muriel’s energy, of his magic…

Her magic spun out in ribbons just as each of her atoms collapsed in like the lightning that crashed overhead, drawing everyone with her as they barreled, formless, eternal, through the void; then they appeared like a gasp in the heart of the forest, dank and dark and dripping with fetid, acidic-smelling dew. 

Just like everyone before him, Muriel was on his knees in a little clearing, the dark sun bearing down on them through the barren branches splayed out above them like desperately outstretched fingers. His hands were open in front of him, almost like he was begging, but his wide, forest green eyes were fixed on his palm, overflowing with tears. At his side, teeth wrapped around his fur-lined, embroidered cloak, whining softly, was Vasalisa, radiating a fierce, golden aura, and - 

Morga, radiating her own undulating aura, yellow and gold and silver and red. Her strong, lined hands, dipped in black to her wrists, rested gently on Muriel’s shoulders – her blackened eyes, forehead and cheeks smeared with the same dark ink, glittered with fierce focus, with tears. Gone were her rough pelts, her furs – she wore a robe of black, covered in ecstatic swirls of golden embroidery, pearls and topaz and garnet glittering with each movement. Belts of leather cinched a long gold qipao, covered in embroidered marigolds and white roses, to her waist – her feet were bare, also dipped in dark. She was so dazzling, so fierce, so terrifying, that Iris wanted to look away – but it was then that she realized what she must look like to her lovers, her friends. An Oracle, blooming, aflame, with the Universe’s power.

Iris approached them – Morga’s black-and-gold eyes snapped to her, wide and fearsome, before she smiled, so so slightly, turning back to Muriel. “The Devil’s claws are deep in this one, Iris.” 

He was on his knees, his outstretched hands were exactly the height of Iris’s as she wrapped her delicate hands around his, peering into his palms. Nestled between his head and heart line was a tiny, curved shape, no bigger than a red lentil. It writhed formlessly, like a tadpole, against the rough weathered skin of his hand, voiceless, helpless – it was then that Iris realized what it was, what the Devil was taunting him with. 

“Oh, Muri.” She whispered, pressing softly on his callused knuckles. “It’s an illusion. Nasmira is safe. Your child is safe.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” He whispered brokenly, his gravelly voice devastatingly low, shaky. “I’ll hurt them. Both of them. I’ll fail them. I won’t be able to protect them.” 

Morga hummed softly, her hands tightening on his shoulders. “We all armed the children we thought we betrayed, Muriel. No child makes it through unscathed. No matter how much their parents love them.” She turned her dark and sparkling eyes to him, her smile soft, lined, motherly. “I am perhaps not the best person to give advice in this. But I can feel your magic, your aura, son of the Khamgalai. You are gentle, and good. You will not make the same mistakes I did. Your child will only remember that gentleness. That goodness. Even when the hurt comes. For it will come, someday. You cannot protect them from everything.” 

Iris smiled, nodded, tears sparkling in her eyes, as she gently pressed on the back of his hands, bringing his palms together. She closed her fingers around Muriel’s hands, only a little shocked when she felt other hands close around hers, Asra’s, strong and ringed and warm with the pulse of his magic, the beat of their shared heart, Julian, gentle and cool and delicate, responsive to her touch, her lead. “Even if you do hurt them, Muri, your love will give them light. Love is all we have that eases us through the pain and the dark.” She said quietly as she turned to her lovers, Asra’s glowing smile, his lidded eyes, Julian’s parted lips, his brows bowed with wonder, then to Morga, eyes soft and knowing. “That love is the light that guides us through the in-between.” 

Muriel shuddered softly, and stumbled forward; Iris, Asra, and Julian all caught him, wrapping their arms around him as Morga grasped his shoulders, pulling him back – Nadia and Portia rushed forward, their hands falling on his arms, pulling him close. Iris still clung to his massive hands, smiling widely as he groaned, his eyes scrunched up painfully. Asra planted a soft kiss on Muriel’s cheek as he came back to them. “You don’t have to do everything alone, Muri.” He murmured. “Even raising a child. We’ll love them like they’re our own. We can’t protect them from pain, but we can make sure they’re never alone in this world.” 

Julian dusted off Muriel’s fur-lined cloak with a deft hand as the much larger man staggered upright; like the others, his masquerade clothes were gone, replaced with a traditional deerhide gown edged with forest green embroidery and soft, green embroidered boots. He huffed, mortified, at Julian’s intimate gesture, but Julian just grinned raffishly. “Whether you like it or not.” He teased, though his voice was achingly earnest.

Muriel flushed a deep, dusky pink now, and averted his eyes. “Don’t we have a Devil to take down?” 

Morga huffed her soft, teasing chuckle, her eyes sharpening like an eagle’s, but Iris laughed loudly, her dulcet voice echoing and bouncing through the trees as she threw her head back. Then her eyes sharpened, glowing again with each and every light ever seen, as she turned her gaze to her lovers, her friends. “We do.” She grasped her lovers hands again, tightly this time, as her friends reached out and touched her shoulders, her back, their power seeping into her, blooming out of her in petals of pure power that ebbed against the Devil’s illusions like waves on a shore. 

The trees that soared above them coalesced into devastating, jagged, undulating wrought-iron columns that crowned a massive onyx dias, the horizon they framed jittery and chaotically expanding, shifting, roaring with each second that passed. At the center of the dias was an impossibly tall throne, the gleaming metal of it sharp like swords, jaggedly beautiful like the gleaming teeth of a beast, wrapped in steep steps, curling, winding, shadowy; some went nowhere fast, others slinking right to the foot of the throne where the Devil sat, his teeth bared, curled in an amused smile, his cloven feet bouncing. 

“You are full of surprises, aren’t you kiddo?” He purred, half with pride, half with annoyance as his claws wrapped around his palm. A carpet of black chains sprung from the ground below them, binding them all and pulling them to their knees with their searing strength. “But in the end you’re no match for me.” 

Iris let out a lung-ripping scream as the chains burned violently against her bare neck, her collarbones, the exposed skin of her arms, singing the lace over her waist, but she burst through the chains with a flash of multi-hued light, lunging forward as her eyes glowed, as her hair fell out of the thick braid that crown her head, haloing her as it floated along behind her like a cloud. 

There was the softest sound of shattering; behind her, Morga easily shrugged off her chains, then Asra, with his impish, triumphant smirk, then Julian, eyes bright and focused – they reached back for their friends, touching their shoulders, their backs, their cheeks, and again, their chains fell away like they were nothing but a child’s baubles. 

The Devil’s smile fell away like a shed snakeskin, his frightening, square-pupiled eyes surveying them for a long, careful moment before he spoke, his lips curling up again. “Iris, why have you cast your lot with these feeble mortals? You could have everything, you know.” Iris’s full lips lifted into a wild sneer, her hands raised, the marks on her palms shimmering and refracting even as the Devil leaned forward, planting his pointed elbows on his knees. “Maybe I should show you what you’re frittering away? The power I could give you?”

She gasped and turned away, but too late, his blood-red eyes burning into her as she plunged backwards into herself; there was fire, black and purple flames licking her thighs, the softness of her arms, her waist, as the Devil wrapped his hands around her bare hips, pulling her down onto his animal mouth, his long tongue circling wildly against her clit. She moaned licentiously, her entire body convulsing, as he knelt in front of her, one of her legs wrapped domineeringly around his shoulders, his neck, his dark, hungry, predatory eyes meeting hers with doting, teasing lust – 

Then he was taking her, his claws on the back of her thighs as he spread her open, her wrists tied to her ankles as her face was pressed roughly, beautifully, deliciously to a bed of bloody red satin, her sex and anus both stretched with his impossible girth as he thrust into her without abandon, as she shrieked with pleasure, as she came and came and came wetly around his massive, prehensile cocks, both curling into her so they expertly caressed the most secret, delicate, sensitive spots inside of her – 

Then she was seated on a throne of bodies, her beautiful nudity on display for all as she lounged at the Devil’s side. She sneered with pleasure, her long, ash-white hair wrapping around her waist, over her breasts, as he judged the unfortunate that approached them, the glistening-hot obsidian chains wrapping around them and pulling them down into the ether, into the horrible, eternal circles of the Devil’s realm, as they screamed, writhed, as she and the Devil both laughed cruelly, maniacally, endlessly – 

Then she was robed in carmine-red, her was hair piled above her head and trailing behind her like a wedding veil, her eyes, pupils squared, contracting, animal, as she stood above the damned, one heeled foot placed on the back of some poor, pale soul – no. She recognized that soul, even as her power arced dangerously like lightning through the sulfur-red sky; it was Julian, his body contorted and bowed under hers, his husky voice low and miserable with agony. 

She averted her eyes, an unsavory, artless guilt blossoming in her as she pressed harder into his back, making him squirm, cry out gorgeously – it was then she saw Asra strapped to multiple trees, his limbs flung painfully wide as the trunks of the blackened, wizened forest bowed away, threatening to pull him apart. He cried out loudly, and Iris’s heart rushed again with guilt, with panic, with love – 

She gasped as she was wrenched out of the vision, Asra and Julian’s hands on her back, Julian’s broad back boxing her in, protecting her from the Devil’s outstretched claws, his glowing eyes, as Asra reached his other hand forward, powerful bolts of deep purple and indigo light arcing, striking away the Devil’s chains. Morga stood tall in front of them, beating back the Devil’s onslaught with skilled strikes of her spear, the chains swimming over the green-tinged shield that Muriel had summoned, snaking around the illusions that Nadia’s gift pushed away as Portia wrapped her hands around Iris’s shoulders, her sneer wide and fearsome as she leveled the Devil with her icy stare, nearly as wide and fearsome as Vasalisa’s fanged growl, as Morga’s hawk’s fierce cry in the shattered sky above them. 

Iris let out a wild, angry cry as the illusion dissolved around her, as she clutched to her lover’s hands, her friend’s embraces. “Try harder.” She breathed heavily to the Devil, whose smirk only widened ferociously as he met Iris’s gaze. 

“I thought you’d never ask, kiddo.” He sneered darkly. 

The world twisted around them now as more chains sprung up from the obsidian tiled-floor, but Iris shook them away with arcs of her magic, with full-throated, sonorant cries that echoed through the Devil’s realm. She unsheathed her swords, one in each hand, and sliced through the chains that raced for her lovers, her friends. Behind her, she heard the sibilant arch of metal of metal as weapons were drawn, Muriel’s battleaxe, Portia’s scimitar, Julian’s rapier, Nadia’s shamshir – they, too, cut easily through the chains as the bright bolts of Asra’s magic shattered them to dust, as Vasalisa’s jaws snapped around them with a fearsome howl, her golden aura sparkling, as Morga let out a fierce uluation, one that Iris had only heard once in a memory, before she struck down the chains that circled them. 

The Devil threw back his head in laughter as Iris slashed through the last chain with a dramatic sweep of her arm, a delicate spin of her feet, the loose tendrils of her long, long hair swaying behind her. Iris arched a surprised brow as she took a step forward, as the Devil’s laughter grew riotous, as he pounded the armrest of his throne. “I did say I was bored, didn’t I, kiddo?” He flashed her a wide, horribly toothy smile. “You really are the best outcome of all this.” 

He stood now, and Iris pointed the longer of her swords to him as everyone spread out behind her, flanking her, Asra and Julian never leaving her side. The Devil chuckled, mildly amused. “But did you really think you, a mere mortal, ever had the slightest hope of stopping me?” 

It was Iris who laughed now, throwing back her head as her eyes flashed. “No.” Two hands, one across her shoulders, one on her waist, their warmth, their love radiating from both of them in waves, their delicious auras washing over Iris, blending with hers, with each others, so strong and luscious she could practically taste them. “I have the strength of my friends, the love of my partners, at my side. The wisdom and compassion my journey has given me. The power of the Arcana, every Arcana, at my back.” She smirked wildly now. “Even you.” 

“How interesting.” The Devil seemed to purr; his form was lengthening, engorging, until he towered over the seven of them. “You’ve made this mistake before, Iris. Casting your lot with those you love. Tying your fates to them. You gave in to me to protect them before, Iris. Could your precious love make you make the same mistake again?” With a sweeping gesture of his claws, more chains sprung up, but this time, they wrenched everyone away from her, suspending them violently from the arched, mile-high ceiling, their weapons clattering helplessly to the ink-black tiled floor.

The Devil, now as tall as as the palace, let a massive claw drift over Asra’s amber cheek as he struggled feebly against his fetters; the Devil’s laughter echoed deeply, cavernously, against the cathedral of his realm. “Such pretty lovers you have, Iris. I shall enjoy taking them apart for eternity once this is all over.” 

“No, you won’t.” Iris said; she felt her magic gathering, gathering, like a terrifying, thunderous stormcloud inside of her. “You think that love is a weakness, but it’s not. It’s strength; it’s relief. We share our pain, our fear, but we also share our joy, our relief. Our hope.” 

She felt her toes leave the chilly, smooth tile as she levitated upwards, her body pulsating with her power as rainbow light coalesced into something pure, blinding, bright. “You seek to separate us, selling us our own fears, because we’re weaker when we’re lonely. When we drive each other away.” 

She could barely see, there was so much white, but still she outstretched her hands – the black chains shifted, glowing, into golden ropes, shimmering and beautiful, slowly, gently, lowering everyone down. “But when we learn to name our fears, to begin to heal our own hearts, we open ourselves up to our true power. Love, without abandon, without pretense. Without shame or guilt or pride. Love where we see each other, accept each other, protect each other when we fall back into our fear. We are never without it; we only learn to love despite it, if we learn to love at all.” 

She laughed now, face to face with him, her irises shifting through every color of the rainbow, glowing, glowing, her magic flowing out of her like the petals of a flower, waves on a stormy sea, above her, below her, everywhere, everywhere. “Yet love is what we all crave, even if we don’t know how to truly give it to others.” She held a hand out to the Devil now, whose eyes flashed now with something she had never seen on him before. Fear. “Which is why I have to bind you, Baphomet. You’ve been a very bad child – weakening your siblings, taking for yourself. Poisoning the mortals with fear, luring them into your traps, drawing more power from them.” Her power surged forward, searing hot and blinding white. “I think a time-out is due.” 

“Mother?” He whispered, his eyes going wide. Iris laughed softly as the knowledge arced through her; she reached out and touched his face, her hand absolutely tiny against his massive form, and still, still, he trembled. 

“What is the Universe but the connection between living beings?” She asked. “What is an Oracle but a conduit for the Universe?” 

The Devil howled, and the arches of his cathedral writhed and twisted, growing eyes, pointed teeth, howling with him as they surged towards Iris, but bolts of light shot up in her periphery, knocking them away – she felt a surge in her, a surge of Asra’s limitless love, Asra’s unrelenting power. There was a shout below, the clanging of steel, and Iris recognized Julian’s voice, leading the charge on foot; her infinite adoration for her brave, beautiful lover welled in her again. And Morga, Morga’s power, matching hers, flowing into her, golden, gleaming, melding into her own silver, rainbowed light. 

“It’s time.” She whispered, and the golden ropes surged forward all at once, gripping the Devil’s arms, his legs, his torso, wrapping and wrapping and wrapping until his wails were muffled as they covered his mouth, his eyes, even his curling, prehensile horns. “I’m sorry, Baphomet. You were born to play this role, to be poisoned with fear. I’m sorry we made you this way.” Iris reached out and touched the Devil’s cheek, her hand warm against his boiling hot skin. “Sleep now, my child. When you are reborn, we will try again.” 

With a harrowing, reverberating scream, Iris summoned all of her magic, the magic of everyone there to support her, everyone who had ever touched her, loaned her strength, Selasi, Ami and Primula, Aster and Dara, Aisha and Salim, Mazelinka, Muriel and Portia and Nadia, Morga, Julian, Asra, Opal, Russell and Selene…

And with a flash of brilliant, white-gold light, it was done. Iris arched in pain, every nerve in her body simmering and raw – she gasped for breath as she dropped, down, down, landing gracefully in Julian and Asra’s waiting arms, clutching to them as she returned to her body, as they wrapped her in the safety of their embrace. 

“Iris…” Asra murmured softly, his lips on her ear, as Julian buried his nose in her hair. “You did it.” 

With wild eyes, she turned to the dais, now cracked under the weight of the towering statue that rose above them. The Devil’s face, warped in a hideous snarl of fear, of defeat, petrified in smooth, cool marble, his clawed hand arched in front of his face in protection, his body contorted in pain. Iris could still feel the oily, unctuous seep of his magic, his power, but he was trapped, imprisoned in his own realm. 

“No.” She whispered, her voice thin and wan as her vision blurred, her head spun with exhaustion. She could feel the embraces of her friends, the warmth of their energy, at her back as they knelt beside the lovers. “We did it.” 

She fainted in her lovers’ arms.

*******

She knew where she was before she opened her eyes; the smell of dirt, the moss and grass under her fingers, the sigh of the wind rustling through tall trees, the music of the frogs, the insects. It was night in the forest now, the full moon ringed through the swaying treetops like an eye as Iris’s eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks, as she sat up. The moonlight bathed her in silver, catching the lace of her dress the same way it caught the wings of the blue dragonflies that flitted around the stream, gurgling and giggling in Iris’s periphery. 

It was the clearing with the low stone table; this time, it was laden with a feast unlike anything Iris had ever seen, even at the palace, decorated with garlands and vases full of wildflowers, lighted with the glow of thousands of fireflies, glittering with every color Iris could name. At each of the settings was the Arcana, in their true forms, their animal forms, laughing and drinking and joking – only one setting was empty, the 15th seat. The head and the foot of the table were also unoccupied, though their places were set. 

“Iris, child!” A form near the end of the table stood, waving, her shape shivering, then coalescing – Death, making a mirror image of Iris, though her hair stayed its grayish, stillborn blue. Two other Arcana stood – a deer and a turtle, their forms, too, shifting to Iris’s, the sly-eyed teen of the Fool, and the round, pregnant belly of the World, smiling knowingly. 

The rest of the Arcana paused, their heads turning on a swivel as the three rushed out to greet her, embracing her like an old friend – Death scooped Iris up into her arms, her warmth familiar and intoxicating; the World held Iris out at arm’s length, looking her up and down, her eyes misting over with tears; the Fool lifted her up and spun her in a circle, laughing with glee. When they let go of her, Death led her to the foot of the table, between her seat and the Hanged Man’s, where the setting was already piled high with the food of the Gods, the Hanged Man pouring berry-red wine into her goblet. 

They ate, drank, celebrated, toasting Iris and each other, retelling parts of the epic, begging Iris to tell parts of it, as the food and wine flowed freely. Iris found herself getting swept up in it, drinking their wine, eating their food, laughing and joking and singing with them as the night wore on. 

And then – the Fool set her glass down and stood, her eye trained thoughtfully on Iris at the foot of the table. “What do you think, Iris?” She asked quietly, though Iris could easily hear every word, even over the voices of the other Arcana. “Do you want to meet her?” 

Before Iris could form a response, all the Arcana glimmered, laughing, smirking, smiling gently, as their forms blurred, as the light flooded the fragrant meadow. Then, they were gone – replaced by a figure at the head of the table that Iris could barely comprehend, a full-figured woman wearing simple white robes and a golden wreath around her head, her void-black hair gathered around her neck in a chignon. When she opened her eyes, they were black and starry, but ringed with rainbows and impossibly, impossibly bright. 

“Iris.” She murmured, outstretching her hand. “You must have so many questions.” 

They were standing at the banks of the stream, the cool water running over their feet, the Universe’s hand in Iris’s as they steadied themselves against the slippery rocks. Iris furrowed her brows as little minnows nibbled at her bare toes. 

“Did you plan this?” Iris asked softly. The Universe squeezed her hand, kneeling down so her white robes swirled in the water, moving as gently as breath. 

“Yes.” She said quietly, sweetly. “And no. There was much of it that you had to choose for yourself.” 

“Did you know I would choose it?” Iris rebutted, kneeling down next to her, the water rushing over her fingers as she buried them in the sweet-scented mud, like a child. 

“Yes.” The Universe replied, her smile coy. “And no.” 

Iris steadied herself as they stood over the cliffs, the cliffs of her childhood home, the sea roaring below them, the salt spray clinging to the whips of their hair. “Asra. Ilya.” She whispered. “They were part of your plan, too?” 

The Universe outstretched her hand, and the tides ebbed, the sea drawing her sweet designs in the foam left behind. “The compassion, the love, that allowed you to weaken Baphomet, free his thralls.” The Universe’s smile was knowing, her brows soft and coy. “Someone had to show it to you, to show you how to love, first. But you also had to learn to forgive, to accept, the ones you loved before you could find love to forgive those you barely knew. You had to learn to forgive yourself, through their love for you.” 

“But...” Iris felt helplessness prick at the corners of her eyes. “They hurt so much because of me. To place this choice in front of me.” 

The Universe laughed now, empathetic, her rainbow eyes flashing. “They hurt because they love you, Iris. Because it hurt too much to lose you. Unfortunately, one cannot exist without the other. You know this. The border we walk between pain and light. Fear and love.” 

They were in the expanse of the Southern taiga, the musky, fragrant marigolds blooming riotously under their feet. Iris leaned down and inhaled their scent, making her shiver, overwhelmed. “Did Lucio have to die?” 

The Universe’s brow softened. “He had been enthralled by Baphomet for a long, long time. Before he even made his first deal.” 

“So had Vulgora. So had Real.” Iris whispered, tracing the velvety folds of one of the marigolds, blood-red with a golden heart. “But he couldn’t find the light?” 

The Universe sighed. “It is not time that defines our darkness, Iris, though it leaves its mark. Lucio was alone, and afraid. It would never be easy for him to see.” She turned to Iris now, and the little magician saw. The remorse that darkened her already-dark eyes, the stars dimming, despondent. 

They stood at the peak of the mountain, the air sharp and crystalline in Iris’s lungs, the stars so close Iris could have caught them, like fireflies. The world was spread out before her, Vesuvia, the spires of the palace, the sprawl of the city, the provinces beyond, the nations and people and wilderness that Iris had never met. “Is the Devil bound forever?” She asked the Universe as the stars wondered above them. 

The Universe’s lips turned in an expression that Iris didn’t quite understand. “Baphomet is too strong to be trapped forever, Iris. He will one day work his way out of the bonds your power has drawn around him.” Her eyes glittered as she turned to her. “But you, your children, your children’s children… they will be long, long dead when he is strong enough to threaten us asunder. And someone, someone just like you, will stitch the rend back together again.”

They were in the chapel of cedars, the trees seeming to stretch infinitely over Iris’s head as they exalted the stars, the moon, the silent sun above. “Is this the end?” Iris asked. “Have I done what I was supposed to do? Was this my purpose?” 

“Oh, little light.” The Universe laughed now, sonorant, echoing; the forest seemed to laugh with her. “This was never the end of your path. You have much to walk, to learn, to teach before you greet Death as a friend. Lovers to embrace. Children to bear. Light to spread.” She reached out and touched Iris’s cheek, and Iris felt the lustrous, singing touch reverberate through her skin, like secrets, like light. “But I will always be easy to find. You need only to seek, little light.” 

The Universe leaned down and kissed Iris full on the lips; the little magician gasped, her every muscle, nerve relaxing like the heavenly bliss after orgasm –

*******

Iris awoke not with a start, but gently, sweetly, blearily, to the quiet, bubbling murmuring of the street below the bay window. The gauze of the curtains fluttered in the soft, mid-January breeze, and on it, the scents of the market, fresh-cut flowers and mountains of sweet oranges, the sultry scents – Iris sighed with happiness – of Selasi’s pumpkin bread, cinnamon and clove and ginger, bathed in butter and demerara sugar. 

She stretched, her back arching – it was then she registered the warmth her breasts pressed against, the cool, creamy stretch of freckled skin under her. She had been sleeping with her head on Julian’s lean, muscular shoulder, his chest flush to the soft, tired mattress, his swan-like neck long and graceful against the light, dawn-lavender sheets. She looked over her shoulder to the sleeping form pressed against her back – Asra, fully nude, arced sinuously around her, matching each and every curve of her body. 

With a sleepy grunt, she rolled over, pressing her lips against Asra’s tender brow before nuzzling into his arms, her forehead against his lips, her cheek pressed to his neck. Julian followed her, his stretching body lengthening as he wrapped a hand around her waist, burying his lips in her hair, inhaling her scent, lazily brushing her long hair away from her neck. 

“Good morning, darling.” He murmured, his voice heavy and sweet and liquid, like molasses, stretching slowly against her scalp. “My gorgeous, precious, courageous darling.” 

“Good morning yourself, my love.” Iris craned her neck slightly, and his lips were hers; they kissed with the softness of the morning light that filtered through the windows. It was now that Asra stirred, his eyelashes fluttering as he carefully kissed Iris’s temple, then drew her chin towards him, kissing her so gently, so passionately that she could have melted in their arms. 

“My heart.” Asra whispered softly as he broke their kiss, pressing his forehead to hers, his hands tracing her cheeks. “I can hardly believe it.” 

“Believe what?” She whispered, nuzzling against him. 

“You.” He breathed. “We saved Vesuvia, the earthside realm, because of you. Freed so many from the Devil’s chains” 

“And turned the Devil into a lawn ornament in the process.” Julian chuckled, his breath warm against Iris’s hair. 

Iris touched Asra’s cheek with one hand, the other swimming down to Julian’s on her waist. “We did it together. I couldn’t have done it without you both at my side.” 

Asra laughed softly; Iris could feel the corners of his mouth turning even as he pressed another kiss on her lips. “There’s no where else I’d rather be, my heart.” 

“I’ll follow wherever you go.” Julian agreed, his warm lips against her neck now. 

Iris sighed contentedly and smiled, letting herself sink lower into the bed. “I’m not going anywhere. The only place I want to be right now is this bed.” 

Julian laughed fully now. “Tired of adventure, _draga_?” 

Iris lifted a mischievous brow. “For now.” 

Asra hummed thoughtfully. “And here I was thinking of taking you to the Endless Waterfall in Hyberia. I think we could all use a vacation.” 

Iris sat up a little. “You’d take me with you? On your travels?” 

Asra chuckled, cupping her chin, running a thumb over her lips. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, my heart. To have you at my side, no matter where that may be.” He reached past her to gently stroke Julian’s cheek. “You, too, Ilya. I wouldn’t dream of leaving either of you behind now.”

“If the where doesn’t matter…” Julian began softly, raising his hand from Iris’s waist to cover Asra’s. “Can Hyberia wait? I, er… I was thinking… I might want to return to Nevivon.” He flushed slightly, his stammer growing more pronounced. “Just for a visit, of course. Put flowers on my grandmother’s grave, check on the house by the sea, visit whichever cousin calls it home now. But I – I want you both to see it, too. I want you there, with me.” 

Iris leaned back and kissed Julian’s cheek, relishing the warmth of his flushed skin under her fingertips. “I’d love that, darling. But right now… I mean it when I say all I want is to stay in bed for like, a week.” 

Asra’s hand drifted down from Julian’s cheek to Iris’s waist, fingers tracing the cinch of her ribs as he sighed wistfully, his low voice longing and beautiful. “I think I could live with that.” 

They kissed, Asra’s touch lingering over her skin as he traced his tongue against the seam of her mouth, a gentle question. With a needy gasp, Iris opened her lips, and he was hers, his warm tongue pressed against hers, searching through her, exploring the sweet softness, the sharp of teeth, the curious landscape of her mouth. Iris hummed softly, and then, with a wave of boldness, of acute, aching desire, surged forward; she rolled Asra onto his back and straddled him, grinning wickedly as she pressed her hips into the space between his stomach and his pelvis. 

Asra, taken aback for only a moment, let out a low, teasing laugh against Iris’s lips, only to melt into a quiet groan as she bit his lower lip and her kisses trailed down his jaw to his neck, alternating between nips and kisses and licks until she reached the gorgeous, golden seam between neck and shoulder, laving her tongue over it as her fingertips dragged over the warm, firm expanse of his chest, his stomach. 

Julian leaned forward, pressing his lips to Asra’s, his silver tongue slipping between tawny lips with no resistance; it earned him a soft little gasp, an almost-choked moan Asra couldn’t completely suppress as Iris dragged her teeth down his smooth chest, her tongue hot and teasing as it flitted over the pucker of his dark nipple. 

Her hands fluttered down to his hips, grabbing the firm, pooling muscles of his thighs, the delicious valley the girdle of his muscles made over his pubis as Iris scooted down and laid between his parted legs. She ran her fingers over the dip of his hip bones, the cut crease of his leg, making him shiver in anticipation as she leaned in, letting her hot breath linger over the erection that was building, twitching under her lips. 

Asra grunted against Julian’s lips as their kiss deepened, Julian’s fingers now grasping for Asra’s neck, cupping the back of his head and pulling him closer, their tongues swirling as Asra threaded the fingers of his other hand through Iris’s long hair. He gathered a fistful of it at the nape of her neck and clutched it needfully as she finally, finally, ran her tongue teasingly over the tip of his cock; Asra let his fingernails scrape against Julian’s muscled stomach as he groped, searched wildly for the hot erection that throbbed between Julian’s legs. 

Julian whimpered when Asra found his mark, warm, smooth fingers wrapping around hardening cock, pumping slowly, lazily, teasingly. Asra pulled away from their kiss, his smirk mischievous and foxlike as Julian chased after him, his eyes closed, his lips parted desperately. 

Asra chuckled softly, giving Julian a long, firm stroke, earning him another whimper. “Ilya, honey… isn’t Iris gorgeous?” He pointed his gaze over his shoulder, between his legs, where Iris had just licked the length of Asra’s cock with one long, torturous, languorous caress of her tongue; she met his eyes, and, with a wicked turning of her lips, took him down to the hilt, the tip curving down her throat, closing wetly, hotly around him as she gagged slightly. 

Julian’s response was a soft moan as Asra tightened his grip around Julian’s shaft. “She’s exquisite…” He murmured quietly, almost pained, as he watched Iris suck Asra’s cock with fervor. “The most exquisite creature…” 

Asra hummed, letting his fingers drag a little roughly through her hair, against her scalp, gently urging her; she moaned softly and furrowed her cheeks, making Asra grunt softly and Julian flush. “And what do you want to do to Iris, honey?” He asked teasingly. “Tell her.” 

Julian’s flush deepened as Iris’s fingers swam under Asra’s scrotum, tracing the jagged seam of his balls before twirling them in her fingers. She looked up to him, smiling now even with Asra’s cock fully seated in her mouth, and Julian whined, his blush spreading to his neck. 

“Don’t be shy, Ilya.” Asra purred, pressing his lips into Julian’s neck, nipping at the delicate, easily bruised skin. 

“I…” He was already breathless, Asra’s hand around his cock, his lips on his throat, watching Iris please Asra. “I just want to make her – make her feel good…” 

Asra chuckled, his soulful eyes glittering darkly. “That wasn’t so hard, was it, honey?” He released his grip on Julian’s cock, his smile absolutely impish. “Make her feel good for me, then.” 

Julian shuddered softly before rearing forward, his elegant hand surging down the milky, vielle-shaped expanse of Iris’s back, swimming down the cleft of her ass to touch her sex, already slick with pleasure. He groaned softly, stroking her clit once, twice, before tracing the parted, delicate lips around her sex. Then he grasped her hips, pulling her forward onto her knees as he laid down on his back, his cock throbbing. 

“Iris, _draga_...” he murmured, reverently tracing the slope of her waist, her hip. “Let me – let me taste you… please…” 

Iris chuckled softly, but crawled forward, kneeling around Julian’s head, her knees practically touching the carved headboard of their bed as she lowered herself carefully onto his parted mouth. “Of course, d-darling...” She stuttered softly as Julian plunged his tongue directly into the place she bloomed from, lapping at her slip, pulling it with his tongue as he dragged it up the length of her sex before circling her clit, firmly grasping her thighs and pulling her forward, urging her to ride him. 

Iris whimpered loudly, her voice high and sweet as it echoed through the flat, and rolled her hips against Julian’s tongue, earning her a groan of pleasure, a deepening of the delicate flush on his narrow cheeks as she gyrated against him, as he pressed his tongue firmly against her pleasure, guiding her with gentle movements of his hands, his arms. He was thrusting his hips upward, too, Asra noticed as he watched them, his own palm snaking down his chest, his stomach, so he could touch himself; he reached out with his other hand and grasped Julian’s cock again, making the much larger man groan with pleasure. The vibrations rumbled pleasantly through Iris’s hips, making her moan softly, open mouthed as she stared down at Julian, his gaze soft and adoring and desperate to please her. 

They went on like this for some time, Iris gyrating against Julian’s tongue, Julian pressing his mouth against her in unadulterated bliss, Asra touching Julian and himself as he pleased his partner. It was only when Iris’s legs shook around Julian’s head, carding her fingers through his silky hair in warning, that his hands snaked up her front, caressing the lovely fullness of her breasts, thumbing and tweaking her nipples, that Julian increased his pace frenetically. Her legs quivering, her shoulders shaking, her chest heaving, Iris came with a soft cry, ambrosia spurting from her core into Julian’s open, waiting mouth as he moaned with happiness, his eyelids fluttering as Asra brought him to orgasm.

“Perfect, Ilya.” Asra purred in Julian’s ear as he grunted through his release, his back arching with each pulse of pleasure. “So good...” 

“Oh, Ilya… darling…” Iris cooed as she settled, his long hands still wrapped around her waist; she brushed back his hair as she trembled with the aftershock, her eyes aglow. Asra sat up, licking Julian’s release from his palm, the webs of his fingers, eyes locking with Iris’s. He offered his hand to her, and she took the two middle fingers into her mouth, sucking them down greedily, savoring the strong, musky taste with a gentle hum of delight as she climbed off of Julian into Asra’s outstretched arms. 

Asra wrapped his hand around Iris’s hip and leaned back onto the bed as the room filled with soft, warm, purple light – Iris straddled his hips and ground down as Asra removed his fingers from her mouth, letting his thumb drag over her soft lips before letting his other hand drift to her hip. Iris laugh quietly as she felt his cock twitch under her, his hips searching for her as she gyrated against him, just as she had with Julian; Asra let out a little frustrated moan as his tip grazed her sex, dripping and silken and sultry, over and over, before she reached down and guided him to her. 

She sighed as she sank down him with a rock of her hips, and Asra groaned, his voice low, licentious, making her insides go liquid; still, she kept her pace slow, luxurious, almost teasing as he slipped in and out of her with each sensuous movement. She closed her eyes and threw her head back, her hair flowing down her back like water, pooling against Asra’s thighs as he guided her hips, arched his back against her, the color rising to his face as he watched her with lidded, hungry eyes, memorizing every delicious dip and dimple of her silken skin, every lush curve and soft ripple of muscle that was so strong and yet so delicate, her body so delicate, like all bodies, like all life, and yet she was here, here, alive and real and in his arms, boldly meeting his gaze and moaning with ecstasy. 

A cool hand tenderly wound around Iris’s waist, slipping down the softness of her belly to her wet clit, fondling her in the same rhythm as her thrusts – Julian’s chest pressed against her back, his other hand cupping a breast, his lips pressed to her cheek as Iris groaned, leaned her head towards his. She felt him slot his still-slippery cock between the cleft of her ass and rut against her, shuddering at the feeling of her skin against his as he touched her. 

Time blurred, as Iris pressed open-mouthed kisses against Julian’s cheek, his jaw, his neck, still damp from his sweat, from her slick, as she turned and looked Asra in the eye as he slid through her with ease, their bodies moving together like they were never meant to be apart. Iris found herself overwhelmed, overwhelmed by both her lover’s touches, by the gorgeous, breathy tenderness of their voices, by the way they looked at each other over her shoulder, the way they both looked at her like she were the most precious, powerful thing in the world – when she came, meeting Asra’s eyes again and bucking forward, her hips stuttering, her shoulders shaking, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him, their chests flushed, and he kissed her like he couldn’t exist without her mouth on his as he trembled through his own orgasm. 

He slid out of her, gasping, panting, and then Julian was leaning into her, groping the swell of her hip, one hand sliding up her back, long fingers weaving through the hair fanned out over her waist. Before he could even plead, Asra cast the spell, another flash of purple, and Iris was smiling back at him, pressing her hips against his. 

Julian pressed into her with a quiet cry, relishing the way Asra’s still-warm seed gushed out from her as he plunged forward; she bit her lips against the wild groan of pleasure that rose up as he increased his pace. Asra cooed in her ear, nipping at her earlobe as she met Julian’s gaze; Iris fought to keep her eyes open as another orgasm threatened to wrack her, wreck her resolve. She whined piteously, arching her back and shimmying her hips against his thrusts, wanting nothing more in the world to make him happy, to see him smile and hear him laugh, to make him feel everything good and lovely and wonderful that their little world had to offer him.

Asra threaded his fingers through her hair and tugged her gently back to him, kissing her hotly, wildly, as Julian groaned, whimpered, grunted – then he was calling out her name breathlessly as another orgasm rushed through her, pulsing through her hips and singing through her body, her voice a low, roaring wail of bliss. With a final, tremulous moan of “ _Draga_...” Julian came again, his hips stuttering wildly against hers, his hands clutching to the smooth of her skin as if nothing else mattered, the pained little grimace of his orgasm melting into a smile of pure love, pure contentment, as he dropped into the sheets next to Asra, Iris reaching for his large hand and interlocking her fingers in his. 

He turned to her, his face still cherry-red and his tousled, auburn waves damp against his temples, the dark hair on his chest glistening with exertion, but he glowed, glowed in the sunrise light as he looked at her, her hair mussed and unruly, her cheeks flushed and her plush lips parted as she panted, as she dropped her cheek to Asra’s chest, pressed her ear to his pounding heart, same as hers, same as hers, same as hers. He, too was breathing heavily, the amber of his chest slick and damp, his eyes shimmering as he smoothed down Iris’s hair, cradled her head with one hand, bringing Julian to him with another for a slow, lingering kiss. 

Iris watched them kiss, their eyes flutter closed as their lips brushed, then sealed, as Julian let out a quiet, over-stimulated grunt and Asra’s lips turned ever so slightly, playfully, his eyes flickering open as he fondly stroked the doctor’s lightly freckled cheek, gaze soft and sweet. 

Iris let out a little gasp as she realized this was their life now – that it was over, the cycle complete, and no matter what path lay ahead of them, they would have this. The three of them in this bed, holding each other, seeing and accepting and loving each other so fully, reveling in each other’s beauty, laughing at each other’s jokes, carrying dreams earthside on their backs, wiping tears, laying in the light of the sun and the moon and the stars and everything in between – 

She sniffled suddenly as the tears spilled from her, surprising, hot things that fell onto Asra’s skin, even as she hastily brushed them away. Asra’s heart jumped, his hand on her hair sliding to her cheek, touching the wet and brushing it away. 

“Iris?” He murmured. “My heart, are you okay?” 

“Yes, I’m...” She sniffed again, and laughed. “I just love you both so much.” 

Asra chuckled softly, relieved. “I love you too, my heart.” He pressed a kiss into her forehead as Julian squeezed her hand, kissing each knuckle slowly. 

“ _Jako te volim, draga._ ” He purred, his mismatched eyes smoky and liquid through his dark lashes, and Iris understood. 

They laid together in silence now, Iris nestled into Asra’s chest, Julian on his back, shoulder pressed against Asra’s. Iris must have dozed off, because she was roused by the quiet voices of her lovers, laughing at some private joke. She let out a little groan, and Asra stroked her back fondly, gently. 

“Are you ready to get up, my heart?” Asra asked. “We left Muriel, Portia, and Nadia at the palace. I’m sure they’re waiting for us.” 

“And everyone else.” Julian agreed, tweaking Asra’s ear playfully. “Including your parents, _slakti med_.” 

Iris let out a petulant little whine. “I meant it when I said I wasn’t leaving this bed for like a week.” She would have held her ground, too, if her stomach hadn’t warbled, loud and long.

Asra snorted softly, and Julian barked with laughter. “Not even to get some breakfast?” The magician teased her softly, curling a slinky tendril of her long blonde hair around two of his fingers.

Julian sat up a little and took a deep, dramatic sniff, his nose high in the air. “It smells like Selasi might have just taken a fresh batch of pumpkin bread out of the kiln.” 

Iris giggled. “I _might_ be convinced to leave the bed for bread. _Might_.” 

She didn’t need to be convinced – Julian’s strong arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her bodily out of the bed, earning him a surprised squeal, a peal of laughter, her sonorant, throaty laugh echoing through their little flat. Asra stooped down to press tickling, teasing kisses on the softness of her belly, her ribs, her back, as she cackled with delight, as Julian laughed and nuzzled the nape of her neck.

They dressed quickly, Asra in his favorite slinky silk pants, a loose, low cut shirt; Julian in the leather leggings that seemed to have found their way to the floor, as if they had always been there, belonged there, his tall boots, a surplice top of soft, cool blue. And for Iris – a shimmering gauzy gray top that showed off her midriff, high-waisted pants with a tapered ankle, a flowing gray robe with long tassels around the hem. Iris watched, her heart warm, as Asra reached up and fixed the collar of Julian’s shirt, pressing a soft kiss into his neck as he smoothed it down – Julian, in turn, adjusted the colorful scarf that Asra had wound around his neck, letting his fingertips linger on the tempting little frame of gleaming skin under Asra’s collarbone. 

She stared for a moment at her reflection in the long mirror in the corner of their apartment, by the heavy, carved wardrobe, as her lovers descended the stairs. For a moment, she hardly recognized herself, the long flowing hair around her hips, the jagged scars on the palms of her hands, the tattoo on the back of her neck. But as she wound her hair into a dancer’s bun at the crown of her head, she saw the refracted light in her magic, the softness of her parted lips, so often kissed, fondly, sweetly. She saw the knowledge in her eyes, the wisdom, the fierceness. The light. She was the same, but changed. She was the Queen of Cups, the Fool, Death, the World, the Magician, the Hanged Man, the High Priestess, the Devil, the Star and the Moon and the Sun – 

“Iris, darling.” Julian called. “Are you coming?” 

She rushed down the stairs in her bare feet, the floorboards groaning. Julian was waiting, holding the door open for her with one hand, the other levitating her cloak for her. Asra was on the first step, just outside, the sunlight haloing the riot of white curls that framed his smiling eyes; he was holding his hand out to her, his palm open and warm. Julian wrapped the cloak around Iris, his arm draping over her shoulder as she took Asra’s hand and squeezed it softly.

Together, they stepped out into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> See you in the final chapter, my loves.


	13. The World: Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Glass Animals - Youth**
> 
> _CW: pregnancy, childbirth_

Iris laid her hand on the ornately carved cedar door and took a deep breath, inhaling the sharp, soothing, still-fragrant scent before casting a muffling charm, the wood pulsing with rainbow light as she pushed it open, just enough for her and Vasalisa to slip through. 

Still, she saw a few heads turn, the ones in the back, the hawk-eyed and deer-eared students. Then, the whispers, the gaggle of girls (Iris chided herself, they were probably older than she was at the last masquerade) put their heads together and chattered like songbirds, glancing unabashedly back at Iris as she slid into the back row of the lecture hall, her legs pointed towards the narrow aisle, the only way she could squeeze into the seat. 

She chuckled to herself as the news rippled through the room, the young students of medicine glancing back to her, surreptitiously or not. She should have known better; of course she would be noticed. She was, after all, the Oracle, swathed in a fine dress of creamy brown, white, and gray florals, poet’s sleeves and architectural pleats, white roses and peonies braided around her short hair. She had a wolf familiar at her feet, still not a common occurrence even in Vesuvia, Iris thought as she reached for Vasalisa, scratching her ears fondly. And she was extremely, enormously pregnant. 

The lecturer didn’t seem to notice the disturbance – he was too busy wrapped up in his story, a tangent most likely, considering that Iris could only think of a few ways that piracy could connect to epidemiology. But if anyone could turn his life of misadventure into a learning opportunity, it was Julian. Now, standing on top of his desk, making a sweeping gesture as he let out a crackling cry, nearly slipping on a pile of papers as he stepped forward, shouting: “You can make me walk the plank later, Captain; that rash on your hand is definitely syphilis!” 

He leapt down from the desk on his long limbs, still spry and lithe for his 42 years, though his fair, freckled skin was a little more lined with crow’s feet and laugh lines, and his hair was lightening at the temples, almost as silver now as Asra’s. Iris smiled fondly at the memory of the day he found his first gray hair, how he’d dramatically flopped on the bed and wailed that his looks were waning; it took only one sly mention of the phrase ‘silver fox’ from Asra for Julian to embrace it wholeheartedly. Now, as he ran his hand through his silver-tinged auburn waves, his smirk wide and raffish, Iris thought he looked more handsome than ever. 

“And that’s how I became the ship’s doctor for the _Hóngsè Biāozhì_ under Captain Chingshi, the dominatrix of the South Seas.” He raised one of his thick eyebrows, his smirk turning into a grin. “And, of course, because most pirates are uneducated in epidemiology, they didn’t know that whoring and unsanitary, cramped conditions could facilitate the spread of communicable diseases. Easily fixed with a couple of handwashing lessons and the encouraged use of prophylactics. Which!” He gestured back at his desk, the Seong stoneware bowl on it filled to the brim with condoms, wrapped in thin rubber membranes. “Are always available to you, no questions asked, if you’re sowing your wild oats.” 

The lecture hall simmered with quiet laughter; it was then that Julian’s gray eye, squinting slightly, rose to scan the audience. Iris chuckled, and waved to him from the back, her other hand resting on the crest of her belly; for just a moment, he flushed to the tips of his ears, then turned, hardly missing a beat. “Laugh it up now, but see one case of syphilitic insanity and you’ll change your tune.”

“Point here is, kids, you never know when understanding how diseases spread will save your life, or the lives of others. I would have been fish food if I hadn’t recognized Chingshi’s syphilis, though that’s a rather extreme case; without first discovering the Red Plague on the battlefields of Prakra during the 12 Year’s War, we wouldn’t have found that morphine and antibacteriums effectively treat the symptoms of the plague, which lead us to the red beetles, the carriers. But it seems that will be the subject of our next lesson.” He leaned back on his desk, winking now at Iris, the gesture just barely working with his eyepatch. “My beautiful wife has come to collect me.” 

The students rose from their seats, the room buzzing with their lively, animated chatter. Julian called after them, “Enjoy your free hour, and I hope I’ll see you all at the ceremony this afternoon! Be safe tonight!” Most made a beeline for the cedar double doors, nodding respectfully, shyly, at Iris; a few stopped to say hi, students from her guest course in obstetrics and gynecology last year, to ask about her pregnancy and her business and give Vasalisa a few friendly scratches behind the ears. 

Then the lecture hall was empty, save for the three (four) of them. Iris stood as Julian mounted the steep steps of the aisle, satchel full of papers and reference guides slung over his shoulder, his smile wide. When he reached her, he stooped and gave her a sweet, lingering kiss, then dropped to one knee, kissing the swell of her belly. “ _Zdravo, moj mali dragulj._ ” He murmured against her skin, his breath warm; Iris tenderly brushed a curl back behind his ear, her heart swelling. “ _Kada ću te upoznati_?”

“ _Uskoro, dragi._ ” Iris said with a wide smile. “Only one more week. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if this one is impatient; she was very active this morning.” 

Julian hummed thoughtfully. “She does as she pleases, just like her mother.” He furrowed his brows a little as he rose, wrapped his arm around Iris’s shoulders, but not before giving Vasalisa some excellent chin rubs. “How did you get here, darling? It’s early, the gondoliers are on a tight timetable – you’re too far along to be taking the carriage, and you certainly shouldn’t be walking.” 

Iris snorted, raising an impish eyebrow at Julian. “Nadia summoned us earlier than expected; she said it’s a surprise. And I still have some tricks up my sleeve.” 

“Oh, I know you do.” Julian murmured, his voice dark and roguish as he bent to kiss Iris’s neck, his hand slipping down to cup the fullness of her ass. Iris laughed and swatted his hand away. 

“If you really want this baby to come early, keep that up.” She warned, taking his hand in hers and leading him upstairs. The medical school they’d built adjoining the newly-established hospital in Center City five years ago was not incredibly large, two decently-sized lecture halls and a handful of smaller classrooms, offices and administrative on the second floor, labs in the basement. Julian’s office, as a member of the board, was one of the largest (still barely big enough for much more than a desk, two chairs, and a wide bookshelf) but it served as his main hub. 

Julian had somehow found himself one of the busiest men in Vesuvia. Despite spending three days a week teaching, he still ran his clinic in the Southside, though from a distance, stopping in only once every few weeks to check in and see a handful of his old patients; he had quickly hired three of his brightest students as residents to run it day-to-day after their first class graduated two years ago. But on top of that, he was the palace’s Head Physician, a role that required him to see to the health of the Seat and everyone on the Chamber, including their families. In some ways, he was lucky. A good half of the Chamber was his own family, not counting himself, Vesuvia’s Surgeon General. 

Iris crossed the room to the tall shelf that lined the back wall, sliding one of the panels aside, revealing a small closet. She took a white silk shirt of the hanger and inspected it, clucking softly as glanced sidelong at her husband, now shucking off his street clothes. “Were you going to tell your students about your, hm, relationship with Chingshi, the Dominatrix of the South Seas?” She smirked wickedly as she shook the shirt out, the wrinkles evaporating in a soft shower of rainbow sparks; she tossed it to him as a delicate flush rose on his cheeks, even as his eyes sparkled with mischief. 

“It’s a story better told over a few drinks at the Raven, don’t you think?” He chuckled, slipping the shirt over his shoulders and hopping ungainfully into the burgundy suit pants draped over the back of his chair. He held out his hands, and Iris slipped the faceted obsidian cufflinks into the eyelets with two practiced motions before letting her hand linger over the mark on his left hand, which had faded little over 13 years, still as stark against his porcelain skin as the day he was branded. She caught his eye, smirking as she smoothed his collar down under his suit matching suit jacket as he shrugged it over his shoulders. 

“I’m just thankful she taught you a thing or two about knots.” Iris teased, before craning her neck and pressing a kiss into his burning cheek, her belly pressing against the silk of his shirt. 

“Are you, ah –” Julian stammered, beet red now. “Are you going to show me how you got here?” 

“I made a portal, silly.” Iris said with a smile, taking his hand and leading him back to the clandestine closet. “Do you have everything?” 

He laughed, his barking, seal-loud laugh, and nodded; Iris wrapped her hand around his arm, pressing the other into the wood paneling in the back of the closet. It warped under her touch, like water, gravity increasing slightly under her fingers, and then they were spinning through the shrieking, insane void before landing firmly in the sundrenched reading nook nestled under the stairwell of their home. 

They had long since outgrown the flat above the shop; it had been a cozy squeeze for the quiet, calm years when Iris and Asra ran the shop and Julian made the trek every morning to his clinic. When Nadia installed the seven year law and Vesuvia spoke, they suddenly found themselves with more money lining their pockets than they knew what to do with; their home in the Heart district was built soon after, a renovated three-story townhouse with a custom master suite that took up most of the third floor, an immense bedroom that connected to three smaller private rooms and an en-suite bathroom to envy the palace’s. They soon found the extra room was much needed.

But their home was not their destination; still clutching Julian’s elbow, Iris lead him down the hall to a lush tapestry that hung in the foyer. Julian pressed a kiss to Iris’s temple as they slipped through the void again, this time stepping easily onto the immaculately polished tile of the palace floors, not far from the grand staircases. 

The palace was different, too. Nadia had quickly vacated the ridiculous guest quarters and the lavish Courtier’s suites, creating instead a makeshift hospital, orphanage, halfway house, and school until the funds could be allocated and infrastructure established in the city. The hospital, the school, and the halfway house sprang up quickly, but the orphans never really left; the palace echoed with the laughter of children now, scurrying to lessons, playing in the gardens, shouting and singing in the cavernous ballroom, their voices echoing, echoing. 

Nadia still lived in Countess’s wing, though it was called the Seat’s wing now, housing the entire royal family, including the Consort and their children. Lucio’s wing had been completely gutted and replaced with offices for the bureaucrats that managed the day-to-day of the government and the palace; Natiqa kept an office there when she wasn’t at the embassy or traveling across the seas. Iris wondered absently when she would be back; her heart clenched as her hand fell to her belly, as the three (four?) of them arrived at the doors to the dining hall. The porter straightened, doffing his cap to them as he flung open the doors and cried, “The Oracle of Vesuvia, the Magician Iris Keshet, and the Surgeon General, Doctor Julian Devorak!” 

Iris chuckled, rolling her eyes as they stepped lightly into the bustling dining room, arms still intertwined. The massive dining hall was rarely used for dining anymore, Nadia often receiving diplomats or other royals in her private parlors and dining rooms. Instead, it had become the Chamber’s unofficial headquarters, the long mahogany table often strewn with schematics and blueprints and drafts of laws and reference books, magical, medical, judicial, and otherwise; coffee and tea and, in the evenings, wine, flowing freely for anyone compelled or summoned to it.

Iris immediately spotted Nadia, nearly a head taller than Aisha and Salim, all three of them huddled at the end of the table, poring over plans and notes and calculations, snuggled shoulder-to-shoulder. Nadia, too, was pregnant, but not quite far along as Iris; in her arms was Kai, a tow-headed, freckled, blue-eyed boy of no more than two. Portia bustled by and easily wrested her son from Nadia’s arms, planting a quick kiss on her regal partner’s cheek as she slowed to match the pace of the now-elderly but still-nimble chamberlain, who was talking a blue streak about last-minute preparations for the ceremony, something about not enough doves and too much mint. As Procurator, Portia had her hands full on days like today, not to mention the week ahead of them.

Just down the table from Nadia, Muriel hovered awkwardly, still visibly uncomfortable with the chaos of the palace even after all these years, with the fine clothing he found himself in, a richly embroidered long vest and matching pants, a starchy white muslin shirt underneath. Most of the servants hustled by him, hardly giving him a second glance, but those who were able to remember him, who knew of his interesting plight, his strange arrangement with the Countess to represent the interests of Vesuvia’s territories and natural resources, knew he was no one to write off. Sitting at his elbow was Nasmira, her hand resting over her stomach. She, too, was very pregnant, now with their fifth; Iris had, without telling either of them, performed several spells, hoping to ensure the Arcana blessed them with what they hoped for – a boy. 

Their four gorgeous girls explored the room’s periphery, walking the length of the mural, their little hands pressed reverently against their father’s images on the wall, eyes wide; the eldest, Malati, nine years old, caught Iris’s eye, smiled shyly, waved. She was already a head taller than her sisters, Mahin, seven, Mari, four, and Makena, two; Iris remembered holding her for the first time right after she was born, her head mossy with her mother’s same grass-green hair, her eyes the shadowy forest green of her father’s. A child conceived in chaos, now a brilliant little beacon of light: as promised, she and all her sisters were much-beloved and spoiled by her mother’s family, her father’s friends.

And, with their backs to Iris and Julian were five figures, a short pixie of a woman, her long, sapphire blue hair piled around her head in rich braids, holding the hand of a beautiful afroed black woman with spring-green eyes, framed with large glasses. Next to them, dressed in an eye-watering, lushly embroidered robe of swirling green and cerulean blue, was Asra, smiling contentedly, proudly, at the white-haired three-year-old in his arms as he babbled on in his fractured toddler language; Asra’s hand was on the shoulder of a ginger-haired boy of five, who was waiting so sweetly, so patiently, to show off the constructs he’d built while his father was away. 

Everyone turned towards Iris and Julian when the porter announced them; Nadia’s smile was positively devilish, Portia’s eyes glinting mischievously, Salim wrapping an arm around Aisha’s waist and kissing her cheek. When Iris’s eyes met Asra’s, still deep and dark as star-strewn, velvety dusk, twinkling with tempered longing, unabashed adoration, she teared up suddenly, violently; she turned wildly to Julian, who was equally shocked, his mouth falling open. The toddler squirmed in Asra’s arms, his tiny voice splitting the sudden silence of the dining room as he waved frantically to them. “Mama, Luli! Azza’s back!” 

And then Iris was in Asra’s arms, her lips pressed to his neck as he turned and kissed Julian heatedly. The toddler’s eyes wide flew in alarm as he clumsily slid his chubby fingers across Iris’s cheeks, messily wiping away her tears. “Mama, don’t cry...” He whimpered, his own little eyes, the same indigo blue as hers, welling with tears. 

“They’re happy tears, Howl.” Iris sniffed, smiling widely, placing both her hands on her partner’s cheeks, pressing her forehead to his. “I missed Asra. Your Luli missed Asra.” 

“Did you now.” Asra murmured, touching her cheek, nuzzling a little against the cool of her skin. “It was only four months.” 

Iris snorted. “You better have rebuilt every aqueduct in Rio de la Plata.” Julian reached over and lifted Howl out of Asra’s arms, and Asra pulled her into a proper embrace, holding her until they both ached.

“You’ve gotten so big.” He murmured in her ear when they finally pulled away. “I was worried I’d miss her.” 

“You almost did. Why are you back so early?” Iris asked quietly, sniffing delicately. 

It was Natiqa who spoke up, smiling wryly. “The Countess of Vesuvia recalled us to from Centenera for _crucial official business_.” She winked. “I understand that she’s pulled out all the stops this year.” 

“And what kind of partner would I be if I missed your birthday, my heart?” He whispered, pressing a soft, short kiss against her lips. 

There was a chorus of disgusted noises; Julian was sitting on the floor surrounded by the kids, the toddler Howl still in his arms, his long legs akimbo. He was feigning gagging noises, sending the children into riotous giggles and copycat sounds, retching and raspberries and moues of disgust. 

Asra leveled him with a cool, even gaze, one eyebrow raised, stooping down to ruffle the hair of their older son and the tow-headed Kai that had somehow escaped Portia’s arms. “I felt almost worse for you, Ilya, leaving you to care for Iris alone while she was pregnant. But it seems you had everything under control.” He smirked impishly. “I’ll have to reward you later for being so good.” Julian couldn’t have stopped the flush that spread from his ears to his neck if he tried; Asra pointedly, gracefully, ignored it, finally turning to marvel over their oldest son’s construct. 

Iris couldn’t help but smile as Asra carefully, gently, wondrously turned over the shy redhead’s work, a snake just like Faust constructed with smooth, thumb-nail sized wooden panels that interlocked seamlessly, slithering in Asra’s palm much like the real Faust, asleep around Asra’s shoulders. When Asra’s eyes widened with surprise, with joy, as the little construct’s mouth opened and a tiny, red-ribboned tongue flicked out, little Elijah glowed.

Before they had children, Iris worried that it would be difficult for the kids to understand their parent’s relationship, and even more difficult for Asra and Julian to connect to children that weren’t biologically theirs; even magic hadn’t yet solved that it took two to tango, not three. When Iris fell pregnant by accident and then miscarried nearly six years ago now, they’d decided they were ready to try – it was unanimous that their first child should be Julian’s, the oldest of the three of them, and arguably the most excited to be a parent. 

But when Elijah was born, it was Asra who bonded most strongly to him; when Elijah was just an infant, Asra carried him around their home, to the palace, to the shop, to the market on his back in the style of Nuru mothers, swaddled in soft white linens embroidered with purple and red arabesques, a gift from Aisha from his own infancy. Iris practically had to wrestle Elijah from Asra’s arms just to breastfeed.

Before Elijah was even two, he showed an aptitude for magic, easily activating the constructs Salim built for him, accidentally transmuting the things he touched, sending his toys skittering across the polished wood floors of their home; Asra, Salim, and Aisha carefully crafted a curriculum of magical study for him, spending several hours each day with his grandparents, honing his talents in a safe and structured environment. Asra beamed with pride when Elijah’s prodigal accomplishments were mentioned, and even though anyone with eyes could see that the child was Julian’s, lanky and skinny even at five, pale and freckled all over, wide, pale blue eyes, wavy strawberry-blonde hair, he followed Asra around like a shadow.

Iris’s gaze flitted to Julian and the gaggle of children; Howl had somehow gathered the attention of all of his cousins and his father. He was now performing a dramatic and wildly inaccurate retelling of the birth of the Oracle, walking his captive audience slowly through the first panels of the mural that now lined every available inch of the dining room. “And then Mama and Luli saw Death, and Death told them they would have to fight skeletons and demons and statues and BEARS...” 

Like Elijah, Howl was a spitting image of his biological father: wild, white curls that floated around his head like a cloud, skin the color of amber, full lips, high, rounded cheekbones under the baby fat that haloed his face – only the eyes were different, Iris’s indigo blue, the same downturned shape, and her dark lashes, thick dark brows. 

But when Howl was born, Asra was away, on the first of many diplomatic missions across the Courageous sea to the New World; word traveled fast of the innovative and effective aqueduct system he, Aisha, Salim, and Nadia installed in the city a mere five years after the last masquerade. He was suddenly much in-demand for infrastructure consultation across the earthside realm, and not even an extremely busy husband, a very pregnant wife, and a gifted toddler at home would keep royalty waiting. 

To make matters worse, Howl’s birth had been long and difficult; he was breech and stubborn as hell, and nothing Iris, Aisha, or Julian prescribed seemed to do the trick. When he finally flipped and made his way earthside, it had been nearly 3 days of labor, and Iris’s body was spent; she had to recover in the hospital, leaving the baby in Julian, Aisha and Salim’s care. 

In those endless, sleepless nights that Julian attempted to soothe his squalling newborn son, he sang him songs from Nevivon, recited every fairy tale he could remember, and when those ran dry, he told him stories of his beautiful mother, his dazzling Azza, his Luli’s adventures as a pirate doctor and the story of how they all fell in love. Though Asra and Iris had long decided on the name Neruda, Julian deliriously nicknamed him Howl, for how he cried constantly. By the time Iris was able to come home, to hold her child for the first time, he was already Howl, and Julian’s fingerprints were pressed deep into the soft clay of his soul. 

He was charismatic and gregarious; he loved having eyes on him, and made friends wherever he went – Iris had to constantly keep an eye on him in the market, where he was wont to slip his hand out of hers to toddle over to strangers. He was bright and imaginative, constantly making up little stories and songs, play-acting with his playmates and cousins, drawing and dancing and asking questions until he was blue in the face. But his favorite thing in the world was sitting on his Luli’s lap and listening to his wild, wonderful stories, to retell those stories with his parents and brother as a captive audience, to hear them laugh and applaud for him. 

Iris listened for a little while to Howl’s story, until Asra pressed a kiss into her cheek and drifted over to his parents, already anxious to talk shop about their new plans for Vesuvia and her territories: improved roads that connected the entire province. From the corner of her eye, she saw Elijah wander to the wall behind the head of the table, staring up in wonder. 

Iris kissed Julian and ruffled Howl’s hair, then quietly slipped beside her oldest son, outstretching her hand to him; he took it wordlessly, almost absentmindedly, returning the gentle pulse she gave him with a firm squeeze of her brother and sister fingers, his eyes never leaving the mural. 

Five years after the last masquerade, Nadia had commissioned a famed Franc muralist (Sabine’s cousin, no less) to redesign the formal dining room; he’d quickly replaced the tacky, terrifying goat painting and blood-red walls with a soft, pure gray and, having heard the fascinating story of the Birth of the Oracle, presented the sketches to the Chamber. 

At the time, Iris found it a touch embarrassing, sitting endlessly for character studies and costuming and then hours and hours of portraits, but the end result was stunning, a masterpiece – the three readings, depicting how she met Julian and Nadia for the first time after her resurrection, Julian and her running from the guards with a starstrand woven through her short hair, Asra and her in the fountain, the time Julian’s gift saved her, Asra and her in the cave, her freeing Muriel, meeting the Magician on Hermit’s Peak, the three of them dancing at the palace, the trial, the Hanged Man’s realm, the Lazaret, the Masquerade… her and Asra and Julian traveling through the fantastically painted Arcane realms, the Star and the Moon and the Sun, the storming of the palace, Iris’s eyes glowing benevolently as she cut the chains from Morga and the Courtiers, the final battle with the Devil, her magic flowing from her in startlingly bright rainbows, cocooning her, her partners, her friends…

But this part was her favorite, the immense portrait of the sitting Chamber, elected by the Vesuvian public as part of the seven year law. There were nine seats on the Chamber now, the new positions added to address the shifting needs of the state; the portrait was crowded with ten imposing, regally rendered figures. Nadia, standing in the center, opulent but austere, her finery offset by the gleaming shamshir of silver that hung from her hip. Portia, at her side, Nadia’s hand around her waist, as the Procurator – she had become something of a household name in Vesuvia when Nadia not only promoted her and put her in charge of the destitute now housed in the palace, but named the commoner, a foreigner no less, the beloved baby sister of the infamous Doctor Devorak, as her Consort. 

Then, the afroed, kaftaned woman holding Natiqa’s hand earlier – Laurel Satrinava, the head Juris, the powerhouse behind Vesuvia’s reformed judicial system; just last year, she finally agreed to marry Natiqa. Behind her and Portia, one hand resting gently on Nadia’s shoulder, was Valerius, the tips of his long ombred hair already tinged with silver at hardly 30, lines of worry furrowed deeply in his stolid brow. He shocked everyone and no one by throwing himself completely into the reforms Nadia made in the city, the only member of the original Chamber who sought a chance for redemption in their role. His connections, his terrifying tenacity, and his intimate knowledge of the city’s inner workings made him an indispensable ally in those early days; his sharp wit, his willingness to uncork a bottle of the good wine and talk a river of shit, and his quiet, unassuming generosity made him a surprising friend. And there was the gentle tenderness that swam behind his eyes whenever Kai climbed into his lap; it was not a well-kept secret that Nadia’s twins, too, would be born light-skinned, light-eyed, light-haired. 

The new Quaestor, Yasir, the position now in charge of the city’s finances and coffers, stood at the edge of the frame. He was a kindly man, the eldest of the chamber and the head of the bank of Vesuvia. With several grandchildren of his own, now mostly grown, he was fond of sneaking candies and sweets to the orphans and the children of the royal family. At the opposite edge of the frame was Hedu, the Pontifex; swathed completely in white, she was the High Priestess of the Empress’s altar in the Temple district, a warm Nuru woman with whom Iris had worked with regularly, even before the election. Next to her was the Praetor, the captain of the guard and head of Vesuvia’s army, though they had no need for battle in nearly 15 years – Bludmila, dressed in the polished, dapper uniform of past Vesuvian counts, remarried now to Rema, the palace’s dark-eyed, sarcastic sommelier. 

But it was the last three figures, arranged around Nadia’s other side, that Elijah stared up at in awe. Julian, the Surgeon General, stood nearly head and shoulders above everyone else in a black suit and burgundy shirt, his mismatched gray eyes boring into the viewer; how the portraitist had captured so perfectly the dreaminess, the seriousness, of his gaze, the gleaming red of his plagued eye, the barest hint of his humor in the tiny lift of his lips, Iris would never know. 

One of Julian’s elegant hands rested on Asra’s back; the magician, now Vesuvia’s Head Architect, was dressed in a fine tunic, vest, and pants of matching wild embroidery, purple and red and indigo swirling chaotically against Julian’s simple black – yet they looked as if they belonged together, complimenting each other, their intimacy palpable, complex, simmering. 

But Asra wasn’t looking at Julian; he was looking down through his feathery white eyelashes, his large eyes shimmering with pride, with devotion, at the woman seated before him, his hand on her shoulder, her hand over his – Julian’s other hand, the branded one, the murderer’s mark etched in horrifying detail, on Iris’s other shoulder. 

Iris wore a simple gray peasant dress, a plunging neckline and lace detailing – around her neck was the moon-shaped emerald, and around her head was a wreath of white peonies, white roses, white lilies, whites irises. She sat cross-legged in the chair, her shapely feet soft and bare, decorum be damned; her eyes lovely, dark, and deep with wisdom and compassion. She always blushed a little at this image of her, the very center of the portrait, depicted more beautifully than she had ever imagined herself, though both Asra and Julian lamented she was much more stunning in person. She, like Nadia, would never need be elected to the Chamber; Morga had laughed and laughed when Iris and Nadia presented her the original 7 year law. _Seiðkana_ were not elected, but born, she’d scoffed. 

“ _Leća_.” Iris murmured to her son, kneeling down carefully beside him, so, so aware of her belly, her body. “Do you want to know a secret?” 

Elijah turned to his mother, his eyes blinking back his surprise. Lips parted, he nodded slowly, shyly. 

“Hold out your hand, like this.” Iris took his hand in hers and extended it up to the painting, just above the image of her lap, the painted fabric folded up over her belly. “And will the unseen to reveal itself to you.” 

Iris watched as his eyelids fluttered shut, concentrating fully; her heart ached, for a moment, knowing that he would never be younger than this moment, the full, sweetness of babehood still clinging to his cheeks, his face freckled and flushed and pink, his hair downy and soft. Then, with a soft gasp, his baby blue eyes flew open – the paint dissolved away in a ring of rainbow light tinged with orange, revealing the little scene underneath – a velvety pink where Iris’s womb would be, and nestled inside of it, a squiggly shape no bigger than the nail of Elijah’s pinky finger. 

Iris leaned closer to him, pressing a tender kiss to his scalp. “When I sat for this portrait, I’d just found out I was pregnant. With you, Elijah. I hadn’t even told your Luli, your Azza, yet. I was going to tell them later that night.” She smiled fondly at the memory. “But the painter saw me, and he knew, he just knew. He said I was glowing. So he painted you into this portrait, safe in my belly, just like your sister is now.” She let the magic fall away and pulled her son closer. “ _Moja mala leća_. My little lentil. No matter how big you get. No matter how many brothers and sisters you have. For a little while, it was just you and me. You’ll always be my little lentil.” 

Elijah nuzzled into his mother’s breast. “ _Volim te_ , mama.” He murmured, his voice quiet and honey-slow. 

“ _Jako te volim_.” Iris kissed his head one more time. It was then that the baby moved inside of her, making her grunt, her hand flying to her belly. Elijah’s hand flew to the swell of her stomach, too, his little fingers splayed, searching for the unearthly movement of the tiny being he knew resided there. 

“Mama, are you okay?” He asked softly, his little brows furrowed. Iris couldn’t even respond before a little shriek ran through the dining room, Howl thundering towards them, Julian stumbling after him. 

“DID THE BABY MOVE?” Howl roared with delight, his smile broad, toothy. “I wanna feel!” 

“She’s sleeping.” Iris said softly, her hand over her belly – still, she gently guided her younger son’s hand to her stomach, right above her distended belly button as Julian sat down beside the three of them. “She’s probably just stretching.” 

Howl’s brows furrowed in adorable concentration, frustration. “I don’t feel it!” He whined quietly, starting to move his hand all over her belly, searching for the movement. Iris laughed gently and wrapped his grasping hand in hers.

“Let her sleep, little wonder.” She murmured. “You’ll meet her soon enough.” 

“Howl, dear.” Nadia called to him. “The twins are moving, if you’d like to feel.” Eyes wide, he flew to his Aunt Nadia, making both Iris and Julian giggle, Iris laying her head on his shoulder as they both watched the little toddler tenderly lay his hands on the Countess’s belly, cooing with amazement. 

“I want a baby in my belly!” He exclaimed excitedly; Asra laughed as he scooped him up in his arms so he could kiss his Aunt Nadi. 

“Whatever you want, little wonder.” He crooned into his child’s ear. “Your path is yours to pave.” 

Julian’s hand crept around Iris’s waist, and he pressed a kiss into her hair as Elijah leaned against him, wrapping his little arms around his father’s neck. Julian smiled fondly at him, fixing his ginger curls, chatting with him in Nivenonii, thumbing away a smudge of ink on his cheek, no doubt from his imaginative sketching or from his grandfather, who was constantly covered in smudges of blue and black. 

Where Howl’s imagination came in his stories, Elijah’s came in his drawings, his constructs; it was Julian who taught him how to sit quietly and see, to translate the world through the eye to the hand to the paper, and encouraged him to draw not only what was in his eye, but in his mind. Iris had caught him doodling more than once while Howl told his little toddler stories, giving fantastical shape to his younger brother’s wild dreams. She secretly hoped that one day they would make together, Howl’s stories, Elijah’s drawings. She could imagine them, sitting on the soft, high-pile rug of their playroom, their little heads pushed together as they leaned over crisp, stiff paper, Elijah drawing while Howl wrote…

Iris was pulled out of her reverie by Julian’s lips on the corner of hers, a quiet romantic moment while Asra, Aisha, and Salim sang to Howl in Nuru, while Elijah nodded sleepily against Julian’s shoulder; Iris could tell by the way Julian’s lips lingered, his long lashes fluttering against her temple, the way his hand on her waist drifted up to the still-shapely cinch of her ribs, that there was a little more than romance behind his kiss. 

The three of them had been together for ten years, ten years filled with laughter, with understanding, with support and love and patience and companionship. Iris knew that for many partners, sex faded to the periphery when children became part of their dynamic, but that had never been so for them. Even with her as pregnant as she was, she and Julian had made love only last night, his hands cupping her belly as she rode him until they were both sore and spent. They missed Asra dearly, but relished the time with just the two of them, their sex steamy but uncomplicated; with Asra, sex was playful, delicious, full of games and teasing and withholding and submission, but Iris never tired of the unaffected way Julian approached her, his hand ghosting up the insides of her thighs, his lips on her neck, a reverent question, his dogged eagerness to please her in everything. 

Yet what she longed for the most were long nights with both of them, like the night they’d conceived the child in her womb; she had long told them that all she wanted was two, that after Howl she was done, pointedly ignoring the knowing looks they exchanged when they thought she wasn’t paying attention. Then, nearly nine months ago now, she delivered Aster’s daughter Sonnet, held the little girl in her arms before handing the baby off to her oldest friend – she came home in the middle of the night and roused them both, telling them she was ready for a girl before collapsing into sleep. 

This complicated things; they had always just planned for two, one from each, and Iris expected they would have a long discussion about it over a few bottles of wine, making sure everyone was heard and honored, as was their way when making important decisions together. And yet, the next night when she came home from her rounds checking in on the expectant and new mothers of Vesuvia, they were waiting for her together in their shared bed, the boys staying the night with their grandparents by the docks in East Goldgrave. They made love until the sun stretched his sleepy fingers through the dawn sky, round after round after round until Iris thought she would never come again, her body absolutely quaking as both her lovers laid down next to her and held her close, kissing her tenderly, warmly, lovingly into slumber. 

Even now, they had no idea which of them was the father, and Iris hoped they never would; she joked with them that it was her baby, springing to life through her sheer willpower. Secretly, she imagined that their daughter would have a little of all three of them in her, her Luli’s stormy gray eyes, her Azza’s dimples; her Luli’s intellect, his goodness – her Azza’s playfulness, his devotion. Iris was only certain that she was a girl – she had come to Iris in so many dreams, holding her hand, her silver-blonde hair streaming around her on the warm sea breeze. She had even whispered her name to Iris as they stared up together at the clouds, rolling lazily through the inkwell blue sky as the sun haloed through them. 

Iris turned slightly and returned Julian’s kiss, her lips trailing down his jaw to his neck as he chuckled. “You’re going to get me in trouble.” He murmured, his hand drifting up her back to cup her neck, to draw her closer. 

Iris smiled against his neck. “I never said I was good, darling.” She murmured, inhaling the deep, musky scent of his skin. 

Julian snorted as another hand fell on Iris’s shoulder, the touch tender and warm – Asra had handed Howl off to his Uncle Muriel, seated on one of his broad shoulders, howling with delight as Muriel indulgently walked him around the rest of the mural, his daughters trailing behind him like ducklings. 

“May I borrow Iris, honey?” He crooned to Julian, his clever eyes narrowed; Julian could never resist when Asra called him by his pet name, a rare treat usually reserved for only the most private moments. 

Still, Julian couldn’t resist smiling raffishly, teasingly. “Oh, I suppose I’ve had her to myself for long enough.” 

Asra smiled widely; of the three of them, he had seemed to age the least, his golden skin still smooth and glowing, but when he smiled like this, his dimples showing, his eyes creased with crepe-y laugh lines, so sweet and adorable that Iris wanted to swoon. He held his hands out to Iris, helping her stand. “Then I suppose you won’t mind if I whisk her away for four months? Busan is beautiful this time of year.” 

“Wait, what –?” Julian’s eyes flew wide, and Iris laughed as Asra wrapped an arm around her waist and whisked her out of the dining room. 

They found themselves hand-in-hand in the gardens, Iris’s bare feet dragging luxuriantly through the cool, lush emerald grass. They were not quite alone; the gardens were peppered with staff decorating for the first night of the masquerade, threading rainbow streamers through the temporary arches erected in the hedge maze, bringing in pot after pot of exotic flowers in every color, glamourists hard at work to enchant the water of the fountains and the reflecting pools to scatter the light like prisms. Come nightfall, this garden would be full, full of revelers, the hardworking, loyal folk of Vesuvia, celebrating the birth of the Oracle and ten years of peace and prosperity. 

At first, Asra and Iris spoke quietly, Asra telling Iris of the new world, of the mountains that framed the Silver valley and the white-hot sun that rose over the Rio de la Plata, the prince’s court, the magicians he found there, the herbs rare on this side of the earthside realm so common there, that he’d brought back to sell in the shop. Iris told him of their children, updates on Elijah’s lessons, Howl’s words; she told him of the shop, now run day-to-day by one of the orphans who aged out, a dark-skinned girl with an enormous talent for magic and a penchant for numbers. Iris had jumped at the chance to offer her the reins of the shop, use of the little apartment that merely gathered dust now that they’d relocated to the Heart. 

She was just starting to update him on the medical school, her business, when Asra suddenly shushed her, sinking down to one knee in front of her, his hands in both of hers – Iris started, her brows furrowed. She realized they were at the little alcove behind the willow, where her name was still carved deep in the bark at the tree’s roots, though time’s relentless sweetness had started to smooth the edges away from the scar. 

He reached into his belt for something; a velvet pouch of sky-blue, which he placed in Iris’s hand. “I thought of you every day, my heart.” He murmured to her, his baritone voice low and plaintive. “You, and Ilya, our children, the little one. It hurt my heart to be away, to think I would miss her arrival earthside, too.” 

Iris clutched the little pouch in her fingers, waiting patiently, as Asra’s fingertips ghosted over the crest of her stomach. She didn’t have the heart to tell him she felt every pang of guilt, every dull ache of separation that he did over those four months they were apart. Her heart was his, and his, hers. Everything he felt, she felt, too, even after all these years. 

He sighed heavily, pensively. “I’ve told Nadia that I won’t do it anymore. No more diplomacy, no more months at sea. Most of those nobles just want to say they have an illustrious magician visiting their court when they’re entertaining, anyway. It only takes so much time to do a consultation, and this one was the worst. The Centenarian prince almost didn’t let us leave when Nadi recalled us, even though he endlessly held us up with rescheduling, with slow decision-making, with changing his mind at the last minute.” His eyes narrowed darkly. “He was almost as bad as Lucio. When all I wanted was to be here with you, with our family. I was ready to give up my seat on the Chamber for it.” 

“Asra.” Iris whispered, gripping his hand in hers. “My heart, if this is what you want, we’ll support you in it. All we want is to be with you, and for you to be happy.” 

Asra kissed her knuckles gently. “Nadi wasn’t so willing to let me go. She said she may not be able to completely keep me from traveling, but she could at least stave it off until this little one is old enough to come with us.” 

Iris’s eyes widened. “Nadia would let us all travel with you? What about our duties?” 

Asra’s eyes glinted mischievously. “She said that you and Ilya could use a vacation. That all of us could use a vacation, truly.” 

Iris snorted, throwing her head back for a moment. “I’m the Oracle, Asra. I don’t exactly get vacations.” 

He stood now, gathering her in his arms. “From everything else you’re doing. Are you still going out on rounds? Teaching? Raising our children? You can’t exactly take a vacation from motherhood, but once she’s older...” 

Iris nuzzled her forehead against his. “You’re right, you’re right, Asra.” He pressed a little kiss against her lips as she smiled. “It’s been so long since we’ve traveled together.”

“Not since Elijah was born.” He murmured. “You’ve hardly left the city.” 

“There’s still so much to be done.” Iris said with a soft huff of laughter. “I feel responsible for the people here. I’m their protector, after all. The dreams don't stop even when I'm gone.” 

The hum in Asra’s voice was knowing, teasing. “Don’t let Nadi hear you say that. The work will still be here when you get back. Nadia can handle it. Portia can handle it. Nero and the rest of the Chamber can handle it.” 

Iris sank a little further into his embrace. “Okay, fine.” 

“That’s my girl.” He murmured, stroking her short hair for a few quiet moments before he spoke again, his voice lilting, curious, teasing. “Are you going to open your gift?” 

Iris snorted, but pulled back slightly, tugging at the drawstrings of the little velvet bag, Asra gripping the soft give of her upper arms, his magical smile lighting up his features as Iris dumped the contents out into her open hand. A delicate silver chain holding a charm the size of her thumb, an opalescent iris with petals of carved abalone shell that scattered the weak winter sun in wild, wobbly rainbows. Iris bit her lip; the tears were already smarting in the corners of her eyes. “Asra… it’s beautiful.” She gasped, her low voice hitching.

“It reminded me of you.” He murmured, taking it gently from her hand and clasping it around her neck; the iris sat perfectly under her collarbone. “My heart, my light.” He kissed her. “My Iris.”

There was soft laughter; Portia, smiling wryly, appeared in the little arched trellis, now dressed in her ceremonial orange robes, her hair coiled wildly at the crown of her head, wreathed in fresh white sweet pea blooms, like fresh linens. In her arms was a dozing Kai, his thumb in his mouth. 

“Everyone’s ready, you two lovebirds.” She cooed, her grin knowing, catlike. “They’re waiting for us.” 

Asra took Kai from Portia’s arms, and Iris took her hand as she lead them out of the gardens.

*******

Even the layout of the city was different, Iris thought as she peeked out of the curtain of the recently established government offices into the new town square. The old town square, with its opulent fountain, framed with views of the mansions in the Heart district, the gleaming temples to the North, the colorful Market District to the east, was still a hub for travelers and shoppers and artists alike, dazzled by the forest of marble statues, the stalls that had leaked from the market, the scents and smells of Vesuvian cafes and restaurants selling the province’s most delicious foods from all over the earthside realm. 

But the new town square, almost three miles southeast, was now the seat of the city’s government, crowned with a new fountain, commissioned by the citizen’s committee for the completion of the new aqueducts; it was one of Iris’s favorite new pieces, perhaps because she, for once, was not central to it. 

Asra’s likeness stood at the fountain’s apex, his parents flanking him, Julian and Iris behind him, Julian’s hand on his shoulder; at the very back was Nadia, her expression wry and regal. In Asra’s arms was a tiny Elijah, hardly a year old, his head buried in his Azza’s neck as the six adults looked up towards the sky, the clear, gorgeous water that had always eluded this part of the city, southern Goldgrave, the Southside, the East Docks, sprouting from under their feet, flowing into the aqueducts that spoked through the square like a wheel, crossed over and over with carved stone bridges. 

It was here that the citizen’s committee met, where the members of the Chamber came to address their concerns and work with them to facilitate solutions; it was here that many of the bureaucratic offices were housed, birth and coming-of-age and marriage and death records, ownership records, business licenses, local regulation. It was here that new laws were made public, much, much closer to the central population; it was here that the opening ceremony for the ten-year masquerade would take place. The square was absolutely roiling with folks, hawkers selling masks and food and rainbow-hued trinkets, musicians and performers, gaggles of children screaming with glee.

A gentle if hesitant hand fell on Iris’s shoulder, making her startle as she turned back; Morga looked as if she hadn’t aged a day, her white-blonde hair still lush and full, tied back messily with strips of leather, clad in leopard skin and leather and furs – it seemed that even Bludmila, a man she had grown to respect, could not convince her to abandon her carved spear. 

“Iris, kid.” She said with a soft smirk. “You’re about to burst.” 

Iris smiled widely and embraced her; when they had last seen each other, Iris had just announced she was pregnant. Morga awkwardly wrapped her free hand Iris’s shoulder, still unused to the little magician’s very physical displays of affection. 

“Did Aloize come with you?” Iris asked softly as she let go, gently, sweetly cognizant of Morga’s discomfort. 

The Jarl nodded once, curtly, before gesturing with her chin; Aloize was discussing something with Muriel, who held a sleeping Howl, in their native Khalkattar, guttural and low. Iris’s heart warmed to see Real, their body now in its late-20s, dressed in the same ceremonial furs as Morga and Aloize, hovering only a few feet away from their partner, chatting with Millicent, a fearsome squad captain in Bludmila’s guard, and Alana, now a young woman, the gentle manager of one of the food rescues that also served as a halfway house for destitute women. Iris could hardly believe they were the same Vulgora and Volta she had so feared so long ago; they were the same, and yet they were not, just the same as Iris. 

“How is the horde? Sarangerel?” Iris asked warmly, her hand now falling on her stomach. “I’m sorry she couldn’t make it.” 

Morga huffed slightly, her lips turned down into her characteristic frown. “She sends her regards. Someone had to stay behind to watch the horde this time. Both Aloize and I saw fire in our dreams.” 

Iris bit her lip. “Destruction, conflict. Another horde?” 

Morga hummed. “Our hordesmen have taken kindly and well to Aloize as their heir, but it will take much more to change the minds of the rest of the South. There are many hordes that still fear male _Seiðkana_.” 

Iris nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a fight worth fighting, then.” She bit her lip in thought, silent for a moment, gazing at Aloize, at Real, their hands now intertwined, before leveling her gaze with the Jarl’s. “Thank you all for coming today. It will mean so much to Vesuvia to have you here for the announcement.” 

Morga placed her hand firmly on Iris’s shoulder. “This is your best idea yet, Iris.” There was a hint of a smile behind her eyes; her gaze lingered even as she pulled away to greet Nadia and Portia. 

Iris hovered over to Muriel, outstretching her arms for her sleeping child – Aloize nodded reverently to her, Real’s eyes softening at the sight of her as their partner lead them away. Muriel leaned into Iris, the tiniest of smiles on his face as he lifted Howl down into her arms.

“Nasmira is due soon, isn’t she?” Iris murmured, keeping her voice low so Howl could sleep; even so, he stirred a little against her, his tiny white eyelashes fluttering against her skin, murmuring in his sleep the same way his father did. 

Muriel nodded. “A week, maybe two. The girls all came late.” 

Iris chuckled softly, glancing down at her belly. “Same as this one, though I’d be surprised if she waits that long. She’s getting impatient, I can tell.” 

Iris saw something flash behind Muriel’s eyes. “How do you know?” He paused for a moment. “That… she’s a...” 

Iris understood; gently, gently, she took Muriel’s hand and placed it on the crest of her stomach. “She told me herself. She’s come to me in my dreams, even told me her name.” She looked up at Muriel. “Have you been dreaming of the baby at all?” 

Muriel flushed, and Iris couldn’t help but smile fondly. “I… there has been… a little boy in my dreams...” 

“Then I’m sure it’s a boy.” Iris crooned. “Do you have a name picked out? Try calling him by it, see how he responds. In your dreams, or… here. Earthside.” 

Muriel removed his hand from Iris’s belly. “Maël.” 

“Beautiful.” Iris whispered. “I hope they’ll be friends. Maël, and –” 

“Iris.” Asra appeared at her side, kissing her temple, his hand on her shoulder. “It’s time.” 

Iris bit her lip softly, her heart fluttering. Muriel gave her hand a friendly squeeze, a quiet smile, as Asra lead her to the double doors. Nadia stood in the front, her brows knit together in focus; Portia was at her side, Kai still asleep in her arms, Valerius hovering not far away, his eyes soft as he regarded the two of them. Julian, holding Elijah, who was blearily rubbing his eyes, beckoned them forward with his free hand – as Iris and Asra slipped into the line, Asra took Howl from her arms, pressing another kiss to the corner of her lips. “All will be well, my heart.” He murmured as Julian grasped his free hand in hers, their fingers interlocking. 

Muriel and Nasmira were behind them, their children hovering around them like tiny satellites. Bringing up the rear was Morga and Aloize, who rubbed their nose against Real’s just as Nadia threw open the double doors, the soft winter sunlight streaming through. 

The din of the crowds died down as soon as Nadia approached the edge of the wide veranda; everyone else fanned out behind her, and Iris was touched to see two chairs placed on either side of her, one for Iris, one for Nasmira. She slipped gratefully into the seat, her feet aching from standing and walking; Julian’s hand slipped from hers, drawing Elijah closer to him as he grasped Asra’s shoulder, opposite him at Iris’s side, as Asra’s laid his free hand on Iris’s shoulder, gently, fondly. 

Portia stood directly to Nadia’s left, hand on her much taller partner’s back, looking up at her with quiet encouragement; Iris saw Nadia tremble slightly. A gentle fondness surged through Iris for her friend, a Countess for nearly twenty years, still frazzled by public speaking.

It was Nasmira who gently cleared her throat, patting Nadi’s hand, bringing her from her daze. Morga smirked softly from Muriel’s other side as Nadia gently cleared her throat, and the crowd fell completely silent, enraptured. 

“My dearest Vesuvia.” Nadia began, her voice melodic, sonorant, if a little wobbly. “Thank you all for coming today for this most momentous occasion. When I sat down to write this speech, wondering how I would address you today, I thought of everything that has happened in the ten years since the events of the last masquerade.” 

“Together, we rebuilt the city from its foundation up. We poured the sand and concrete and lifted the Sunken district from the Courageous sea. We ferried water from the natural springs that the palace rests on to every district in the city, and implemented a waste system to keep those waters clean. Together we built a hospital, established schools for our children, put systems in place to aid the destitute. We even changed our government, giving you a voice in who represents you in this city, not just on my Chamber, but in the Citizen’s Committee.” 

Nadia’s brows softened now. “And these reforms are astounding. The city is thriving; the provinces are thriving. You, her citizens, are thriving, working, living, playing in our beautiful city, our lively and productive realm, making it the lovely, wondrous place it is today. We could have done none of this without you.” She gestured to her friends behind her, before sighing softly. 

“But that is not what I gathered you here to say. I have gathered you here to tell you that we have failed you, Vesuvia.” Here she paused, taking a deep breath as the crowed murmured, soft and deep like the sea. 

“In these last ten years, you have erected statues and commissioned murals of our adventures, our fight against the Devil, the birth of our Oracle, Iris. I have seen more re-enactments of our epic than I can count.” Nadia bit her lips together. “I worry that we have come to celebrate the wrong things; what was a harrowing ordeal for us all has become a romanticized, heroic story of the triumph of good over evil. We have been held up like the Arcana themselves, like Gods.

“But Vesuvia, my dearest Vesuvia… we are ordinary people. Mortals with deep flaws, deep fears, some so vast, so unnameable, that we cannot truly fathom the ways they guide us through our lives, an unseen, unmoving compass. We are not born with these fears – no child is born afraid. We all learn to fear, the moment we are taught that pain is possible.” Nadia’s gaze flew to the sky, cottony clouds rolling urgently through unerring azure. 

“We failed you, Vesuvia, because for a very long time, we behaved out of fear. We feared how our failures would reflect on our ability, our usefulness; we feared that being rejected, being alone, meant we were unworthy of love, of living. We feared that the way we were, we would never find acceptance, belonging, peace. We feared that what we had done made us unlovable, irredeemable. It was these things that allowed us, allowed all of us, to let a tyrant nearly drag you to ruin.” 

Iris’s breath hitched in her throat, the tears falling earnestly now as she looked up to Nadia, who smiled softly at her, her own eyes glittering. Asra squeezed Iris’s shoulder, and to Iris’s surprise, a little hand reached down to brush a tear away – Elijah, eyes still a little hazy with sleep, his lips furrowed in quiet concern as Julian smiled proudly on. 

“And yet.” Nadia said softly, her warm eyes lingering on Iris before turning back to her people. “It was this heroic journey that has taught us all our most important lessons – there is no one who walks through life without pain. Not even tyrants.” Her eyes flashed. “My late husband, the Count Lucio, was not a good man. He was spoiled and selfish, a bigot, a brute. He was the kind of man who would do anything to get what he wanted; he threatened, manipulated, beat, tortured, raped, and killed just the people who stand before you today.” She gestured widely to her friends, her family, who flanked her. “And yet, he was in pain. He was searching for what we were all searching for. Love, in a world that told him from the start that he was not enough. But we did not see his pain; we only looked at him with hatred in our hearts. We never sought to understand, only to turn the insurmountable tide of his power from the outside, or simply to survive his rule.” 

Nadia paused, sighed, wiping away the single tear that slipped down the bridge of her nose. “What saved us all from utter destruction ten years ago was not just courage, heroism, amazing feats of magical prowess. It was kindness and compassion, empathy, love, that fought back our fears, shining light in a darkness so profound we did not know that we could not see. Our Oracle’s journey through herself gave her not only her immense power, but the immense love that bleeds into everything she touches, including all of us.”

“It is foolish to think we can live lives without fear or pain; by avoiding fear and pain, even, we isolate ourselves from each other, dull our instincts for human connection, for empathy and compassion and forgiveness. It is why I stand humbly before you today to implore you that you do not forget to see one another, to approach each other with grace and kindness, to remember that no matter who we are, we are flawed and hurt and full of fear, but also full of love and goodness and light.” 

Nadia trembled, one hand clutching the marble bannister, the other flying to her face again, wiping away her tears; Portia’s hand tightened on Nadia’s back, leaning slightly into her, pressing her warm, smiling, proud cheek into Nadia’s sky-clad arm. “We must stand in the light, even when it is painful.” Nadia continued firmly. “We must love and accept our fellow man, be kind and compassionate, seek to ease the suffering of others. That is the only way we can maintain this golden era of peace and prosperity. This is my charge to you, Vesuvia.” 

“This is not work that balladeers will sing of in the future, that the poets will remember in their epics, this work of empathy, this work of kindness, but this, this, is what will build the world we have all been searching for since the Universe cried her first tears, the Arcana slipping from her womb. Let Vesuvia be the place where all are welcome, all are seen and accepted and loved, where love can supersede fear. Where our children can see the world with clear eyes, love freely, create freely, play freely, and fill our streets, our city, with their unfettered light.” 

“This is why, Vesuvia, your Chamber has been diligently working to prepare this celebration for you. That is why we celebrate the Oracle’s birth, the light that she has brought us, the peace and prosperity that allows us to be the place that before, we could only dream of. The place where penance is paid for your pain.” Nadia paused, only a moment, as a murmur shot through the crowd, only the slightest corner of her mouth twitching in amusement. 

“The Chamber has elected to pay reparations to every Vesuvian citizen, young and old, male and female, Vesuvian-born and Vesuvian-made. We cannot pretend that pentacles from our coffers can ever undo what has been done – the lost loves, the lost parents, the lost children. The businesses shuttered, the families devastated, the dreams dashed. This mere token will never atone for the loss you have suffered at our hand; this, instead, is an investment, an investment in the future, a future that is bright, bright and full of goodness.”

There was a wild roar from the crowd, whoops and cheers and applause; Iris could see so, so many children sitting on the shoulders of their fathers, their mothers, their eyes wide and shining as their parents cried out. Her face was wet with tears as she touched her belly, thought of her daughter, her sons in the arms of their fathers, the world they were forging, the future, full of light –

Iris gasped, loudly, as a wetness, human-warm, surged from her suddenly, soaking her lap, wetting her legs. For a moment, she was stunned, her eyes wide, and then she stood, staggering slightly. Nadia’s mouth went wide as Iris turned back towards the doors to the government hall, her back bowed, her face drawn into a slight grimace. Suddenly, hands were on her back, cool, long hands steadying her with their gentle, sensitive touch. 

“ _Draga._ ” Julian’s voice was even, quiet, but firm in her ear. “Are you – ? Is she – ?” 

She turned to him, her eyes shining, her smile wild – Asra hovered just behind them, tawny lips parted, eyes wide. He held Elijah’s hand, Howl still asleep curled on his shoulder. There was a murmur like a river running through the crowd, but Iris hardly heard them, heard Nadia’s voice continuing on with her powerful speech, saw her garnet eyes glancing back at her as Portia bit her lip uncertainly, Muriel and Nasmira and Morga and Aloize’s gazes all trained on her. 

Iris took a deep, shaky breath. “She’s here. She’s ready.”

*******

When Iris jolted awake the next morning, so early the sun had not yet risen, the horizon not even painted the fog-dim green of the sun’s first awakening, she was damp, covered in sweat, her blonde hair absolutely plastered to her face. Her clothes were gone, her full breasts ached, and she was sore, so, so sore, exhausted and spent. She was lying on her side, her face pressed against the welcoming plane of a firm, bare chest, the buttons long-undone with trembling, fiercely focused fingers, the same hand gentle now as it smoothed down her drenched hair. 

“You’re awake, _draga moj_.” Julian murmured, shifting slightly so he could lean down to kiss her as she craned up towards him. “I thought you’d sleep longer. You did so well, my darling.” 

“Where…?” Iris’s heard pounded, her eyes wild as she searched their bedroom, the sheets twisting around her. Julian shushed her gently, pressing one finger to his lips and pointing to the other side of the wide, wide bed. 

Asra’s eyelashes were fluttering, fighting sleep, his starry gaze trained on the infant, still wrinkled and ruddy-skinned, curled up and asleep on his bare chest; he had one hand on her little rear, the other thumbing her precious, full cheek. She had the downiest blonde peach fuzz, her eyes still screwed shut, her full lips parted as she breathed heavily with earthside sleep. His eyes fell on Iris, lidded, warm, full of wonder. 

“She’s perfect, Iris.” He whispered, holding his hand out to her. “Just like you.” 

Iris laid her head on Asra’s shoulder, her lips quivering as she touched her child, fingertips grazing the little spine, little limbs, the soft hair. “Welcome home, my love.” She whispered to her. “We’ve all been waiting for you.” 

Julian joined them, wrapping his arm around Iris’s waist, enraptured. “ _Moj mali dragulj_.” He murmured, his cheek against Iris’s hair. “I promise we’ll take good care of you, little one.” 

“The last piece of our little family...” Asra said with a smile, resting his head against Iris’s. “But you never told us her name, my heart.” 

Iris’s heart hammered, the same as Asra’s, as the infant gurgled quietly, scrunching her little nose up in her sleep; Julian reached for her, cooing softly, and she wrapped her little hand around his long finger, her impossibly tiny fingers miniscule against his. 

“Lazuli.” Iris whispered. “Lazuli Lux Keshet.” 

“Rolls right of the tongue.” Julian chuckled. 

Asra smiled. “You picked a good name, my little light.” 

“And what a little light you’ll be.” Iris felt her eyelids drooping again and nestled a little deeper into Asra’s shoulder; together, the three of them watched their dozing child. It was a long, long, beatific, sublime moment before Julian leaned down, whispered into her ear, his voice steeped in unfettered bliss. 

“You never got to sing your song, darling.” 

Iris huffed softly, the corners of her mouth turning only a little as she leaned into him, pressed her lips tenderly into his neck. “No, I didn’t.” 

“Sing now.” Asra murmured, his eyes soulful, starry, bleary, as he turned to her – his smile so full of sweetness, so full of endless loyalty, endless love, that Iris couldn’t help but grin, even as her body begged for sleep.

And so Iris sang, sang tenderly, hardly a whisper, to their tiny child; she sang and she sang, verse after verse, until the warmth of her lovers arms softly lulled her back into the lovely quiet, the darling warmth, of sleep. 

_“Say it’s here where our pieces fall in place  
We can fear ‘cause the feeling’s fine to betray  
Where our water isn’t hidden  
We can burn and be forgiven  
Where our hands hurt from healing  
We can laugh without a reason_

_Where the sun isn’t only sinking fast  
Every moon and our bodies make shining glass  
Where the time of our lives is all we have  
And we get a chance to say before we ease away  
For all the love you’ve left behind  
You can have mine…”_

**_The End_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> story time (tm)
> 
> In the winter of 2018, I was very, very depressed. My life was tedious, and I was tired all the time. Getting out of bed to go to work was a chore, let alone giving my all to the work that I felt called to do. I felt lost; I felt hopeless. It felt like there was no way out. 
> 
> And then I stumbled across the Arcana. 
> 
> It had been a long, long time since the fire of fandom ignited so brightly in me. When I started writing the Oracle, it was nothing but a challenge from my therapist to reconnect with my inner child (I wrote fanfiction all through my teenaged years, never published). Little did I know the project would consume me for 16 months, help me unravel the knots of my own neuroses, get me closer to the members of my own council, help me mother the inner child, the inner twelve-year-old, the inner teenager who had been screaming in my ear for longer than I knew. 
> 
> I did the work. I showed up for the art. But if it hadn't been for the Arcana, for the fandom and the writers and the artists who inspired me, this would have never come to fruition. I never thought I could write a novel. I never thought I could flesh out a full, living, breathing character like Iris, could inhabit so deeply the very real and very flawed characters the lore placed in front of me. I never thought writing smut could nurture my relationship with my body, my self, my needs. And yet, here I am, standing before you, offering this entire beautifully flawed and imperfect piece of deeply personal art to share. 
> 
> If you're here - if you're still reading - thank you, thank you, thank you, for taking this journey with me. I was never going to post this. I was so scared. I never would have shared it if it weren't for my amazing therapist (who basically called me a coward, get u a therapist who challenges you, y'all). But I've been continually humbled and honored by the love and support you've shown me. I can't say anything else but thank you. Thank you.
> 
> Show up. Show up for yourself, write and make and create even when it's not perfect. Especially in these strange and trying times. Show up for your inner self, for your inner child, your council. Let them rage, let them be heard. And nurture them; give them their voices. Your story is yours to tell. 
> 
> I can't wait to read it, to hear it, to see it. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much. See you around. 
> 
> Love, MOC <3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [motherofqups](https://motherofqups.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Share your brightest lights and your darkest darknesses with me. Memes are cool, too.


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